Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  Richina’s brow furrowed, but she did not question him as Palian, Delvor, Wilten, and Delcetta stepped into the entryway of the small dwelling.

  Secca glanced at Alcaren, and then at the lance, raising her eyebrows in inquiry.

  “It may be useful for other matters in the future. I was considering—” He glanced toward those entering. “Later,” he said with a smile.

  Secca nodded and moved toward the table.

  Dymen closed the door after the two chief players and two overcaptains had entered the dwelling.

  “Sit down…as best you can,” offered Secca, gesturing toward the motley assortment of chairs and stools, and then taking a simple straight-backed chair.

  Richina took the high stool, and Alcaren a lower one beside Secca.

  “What will you propose to Lord Fehern, if we might ask?” inquired the gray-haired Palian.

  “That we pursue the group to the south, while he sends a small force northward, in order to keep the Sturinnese guarding the trade pass.”

  “Do you trust him?” asked Palian. “After what he has done?”

  “I have my doubts,” Secca replied. At the sound of hoofs, she glanced out through the leftmost of the narrow windows. Fehern had reined up outside the dwelling, along with Halyt. A full company, if not more, of Dumaran lancers was drawn up in formation opposite the inn, across the street from the SouthWomen, and less than twenty yards to the south of the window through which Secca looked.

  Secca rose, as did the others.

  Fehern stepped into the dwelling, followed by Halyt. Both wore leather riding jackets, unfastened, and a single Dumaran overcaptain followed them. Fehern’s sabre rattled against the narrow doorjamb as he made his entrance. The Lord High Counselor of Dumar offered a broad smile. “Good morning to all.”

  “Indeed it is.” Halyt followed his words with a hearty laugh. “And may the day get better as it dawns brighter.”

  Murmurs of response answered the pleasantry.

  Fehern settled into the chair left for him across from Secca, not bothering to remove his jacket. Secca seated herself, as did Halyt and the others. The Dumaran overcaptain stood back a pace, but between the chairs taken by Halyt and Fehern.

  “What have you discovered of the whereabouts of the Sturinnese, Lady Sorceress?” inquired Fehern, almost indifferently.

  “They remain split into two bodies. The northmost force is half the size of the one to the south of us. The southern force has the greater share of drummers and archers. That would lead one to believe that there are more sorcerers with the southern force as well.” Secca smiled politely.

  “So we will attack the southern force?”

  “I had thought that you would ride toward the northern force,” Secca suggested. “They are farther away. If you make a deliberate pace, then it will take several days. Except you will return to Envaryl if it appears they are moving toward you.”

  “A decoy? We would be a decoy?” Fehern frowned. “Ten companies as a decoy?”

  “Only for the first few days. Then we would rejoin forces.”

  “After you have crushed the larger force, I presume.” Fehern’s tone verged on sarcasm.

  “If it is possible,” Secca said. “If we fail, you are no worse off, and perhaps better by the amount of Sturinnese we destroy.”

  “That is true enough, lord,” mused Halyt. “We cannot lose if we proceed.”

  “Why do you need us to separate?”

  “So that the northern force does not ride down upon us from behind,” Secca replied. “Also, if you do not have to fight until we rejoin, you will have more lancers.”

  “You believe we should undertake this effort soon?” asked Halyt, glancing toward the dark-haired Fehern.

  “I would suggest tomorrow,” Secca replied. “The Sturinnese to the south are on a part of the road where there are no side lanes or ways that lead anywhere, except to local cottages and hamlets, and it will be easier for us to move forward than for them to retreat. If we wait, they can reach a crossroads and avoid us.”

  “Will that be so on the morrow?”

  “Unless they travel far more swiftly than they have. In that instance, we will not have to move that many deks at all.”

  Fehern fingered his chin, then slowly nodded, looking to Halyt. “Best we do what we must, then.”

  “I would judge so, lord.”

  Fehern smiled. “We will leave the larger body in your hands, Lady Sorceress.” He paused. “If there is nothing else…?”

  “I think not.” Secca kept a frown from her lips and face. Fehern’s words had disturbed her, for false as they had seemed, they had also seemed true, as though the lord had agreed to commit himself, and that worried Secca. She hadn’t expected a sense of commitment from the shifty lord.

  “Then…we will make ready for the morrow.” Fehern stood. “You will send a messenger if the disposition of the Sturinnese alters?”

  “That we will,” Secca promised.

  Fehern took a step toward the door, then paused, turning.

  Secca stood waiting, wondering what else Fehern wanted.

  “Lady Sorceress…a moment,” Fehern said. “I would ask your leave to discuss a matter with you.” He glanced toward those still standing around the table, then lowered his voice, “About possible consorting…”

  Secca nodded. “Alcaren, Richina…you may remain. Chief players and overcaptains…we will discuss matters after I talk with Lord Fehern.”

  Fehern shifted his weight from boot to boot as Wilten, Delcetta, Palian, and Delvor left, along with the unnamed Dumaran overcaptain who had accompanied Fehern. Looking self-conscious, he fumbled with his sabre belt and then one of the two belt wallets.

  In deference, Alcaren and Richina moved toward the front of the chamber, affording some space between themselves and Secca and Fehern.

  Halyt followed Alcaren and Secca, offering a low but hearty laugh.

  Secca forced herself to keep smiling after the front door to the cottage closed, uneasy as she felt. “What did you wish to discuss?”

  “In fact…a number of things…” Fehern smiled apologetically, reaching inside his riding jacket. “I have something I wished to show you…of great interest.”

  “I see.” Rather than moving forward, Secca kept back from the Dumaran lord, her smile fixed in place.

  Fehern’s face abruptly contorted, and his gloved hand swung toward Secca.

  She jerked her head aside, but liquid splattered across her cheeks and forehead, a cool liquid that suddenly began to burn.

  Secca jumped farther back and opened her mouth to offer a short flame spell, even as she drew her own shorter sabre.

  A sabre appeared in Fehern’s right hand, and his left fumbled with a belt wallet. He lunged forward.

  Secca parried the stroke, beginning the words of the flame spell.

  “Turn to ash and burn with flame…”

  A mass of fine powder exploded around her face and mouth, so fine, pervasive, and choking that she could scarcely breathe, let alone sing. Gasping, she danced back, her vision blurred. She managed to half parry a second slashing stroke from Fehern, but took a glancing blow on her shoulder as she tried to cough her cords clear and avoid being backed into the corner.

  Behind Fehern, she could sense a welter of motion, but her concentration was on Fehern, and her blurred vision did not reveal more than that.

  “Hold still!” snapped Fehern.

  Secca moved toward the taller man, blocking another thrust, but feeling the shock and numbness in her sabre hand and arm from the force of his blow.

  From the front of the chamber came a spell, sung in Alcaren’s voice.

  “With this lance, strike him dead,

  leave no life in body or in head….”

  Secca danced aside as she heard the words, barely managing another parry.

  Fehern jerked upright, transfixed by the throwing lance, his mouth opening, then falling slack as he pitched forward toward Secca.


  The sorceress stepped aside from the falling body, but kept her sabre ready for a moment. Through a powder-fogged vision, she saw Richina straightening after wiping her sabre clean on the crimson tunic of Halyt, who lay facedown on the dark wooden floor.

  “He tried to kill Alcaren. He wasn’t even looking at me.” Richina smiled bitterly. “I’m sorry, lady, but the sabre was faster, and I was afraid a flame spell would injure you, so close were the two of you.”

  The sound of weapons and shouts penetrated the chamber.

  “Lady Secca! We are attacked!” came the call from outside.

  Alcaren started toward the door, his own sabre in hand.

  “Outside!” snapped Secca, reaching for her lutar with her free hand.

  Richina and Alcaren stood on the lower step, blades ready, as Secca darted out behind them. Below them Achar had joined Gorkon and Dymen, and the three stood shoulder to shoulder to protect the entry to the dwelling.

  Mounted lancers in crimson seemed to fill the narrow street, and the squad of SouthWomen, surrounded on three sides by Dumarans, was being pushed into a tighter and tighter circle. Even as Secca brought up the lutar, another SouthWoman lancer in blue and crimson fell.

  “Turn to ash and burn with flame

  all those of Dumar against our name,

  lash with fire and turn to dust

  all those who betrayed our trust…”

  As she finished the spell, Secca could only hope she had both words and song right.

  She had something right, because fire lashes and smoke appeared from everywhere, and the sky darkened.

  Several of the Dumaran lancers looked skyward before the screams began.

  Secca lowered the lutar and shuddered.

  Within moments, the stench of burned flesh was overwhelming, and Secca had to swallow hard to avoid retching. Dymen was one of those unable to contain his reaction, and the young lancer was bent almost double at the base of the steps. Achar appeared pale, but remained alert, his blade out and poised. Gorkon surveyed the dead and dying Dumarans with unveiled contempt and anger.

  Palian appeared through the smoke and swirling ashes, with Delvor staggering after her. The gray-haired player held a bloody sabre. Delvor bore an iron-headed staff, also bloody.

  “The players?” asked Secca.

  “They’re all right, except for Nuel.” Palian lowered the sabre. “He was standing outside the inn when the Dumarans rode up. They cut him down. The others were inside.”

  “You were out here?” Secca laughed at herself, ironically. “Of course you were. It all happened so fast.”

  Palian looked at the older sorceress, her eyes narrowing as she studied Secca’s face.

  “Fehern tried to kill me, with some burning liquid and a sabre. He threw flour or talc in my face to keep me from singing a spell.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Quite dead,” interjected Alcaren. “So is Halyt. Richina killed him with a sabre.”

  Wilten rode through the slowly clearly smoke, peering around. When he saw Secca, the relief was obvious on his face, and he guided his mount toward the group.

  “They attacked the men where they stood…”

  “I know. Fehern threw burning water at my face and flour or something at my mouth so that I couldn’t sing.”

  Wilten leaned forward, then winced as he saw Secca’s face.

  Secca hoped the damage wasn’t that bad. “How many did we lose?”

  “Perhaps a company’s worth for us, and the same for the SouthWomen.” Wilten shook his head.

  “Where is Delcetta?” asked Secca.

  “The overcaptain is pursuing the handful of Dumarans who were beyond your spell. I do not think they will survive her wrath.”

  Secca hoped not.

  “None of the Dumaran lancers within a half-dek of you lived. Some of the local people died also.” Wilten’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  The redheaded sorceress wasn’t sure she was even regretful about that. Spells sung in haste often had results beyond their intent, and one sung in a town was bound to have unintended consequences. She also didn’t feel that much sympathy for people who allowed plotters like Fehern to triumph. The grim smile faded from her face as she thought of Anna.

  Was she coming to be as cynical as her mentor and foster mother? Was that what dealing with power and treachery did?

  Secca stiffened, then turned abruptly to Richina. “Get the glass out and see if you can discover if there are any Sturinnese riding toward us. Or if there are any nearby. Now would be the time for them to attack.”

  Richina scurried back inside the dwelling.

  Secca looked up at the still-mounted Wilten. “Best you gather all the lancers and have them stand ready until we know what we might expect.”

  “Yes, lady.” He paused. “Even I did not expect such treachery.” Another pause followed. “All will be glad to know you stand prepared.” An ironic grin appeared on his face. “Though the last spell would have told them that.” With a brusque nod, he turned his mount. “Companies re-form!”

  Secca turned and slipped inside the dwelling. Once inside, she sheathed the sabre she had almost forgotten she still held, and then crossed the main chamber to the table.

  There Richina stood, lutar in hand, studying the glass. The younger sorceress looked up, then nodded toward the image of the map displayed on the silvered surface. “I have used both spells, and both show that they are on the same roads as this morning, and that there are no Sturinnese lancers near us.”

  “Then…why?” Secca glanced to her consort.

  Alcaren looked at Fehern’s form, sprawled where he had fallen—transfixed by the shimmering iron of the throwing lance. “We may never know, not for certain. He wanted more, I think, than he was worthy of.”

  Do not we all? thought Secca, setting the lutar on the table.

  “A moment, my lady.” Alcaren vanished, only to reappear seemingly within moments, with a bucket of water and some cloths—and a handful of flour.

  First, he blotted her face with the flour, gently brushing it away, and then repeating the process. After that, he dampened one cloth slightly and blotted the line of the wound. Then he wet a corner of a second cloth and touched her cheek. “Does that burn?”

  Secca winced. “Not any more than it did. But touching it hurts.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment.” He left the room again, his boots clumping on the stairs.

  Secca glanced at Richina. “Could you try a spell to see if anyone from Sturinn is nearby?”

  The younger sorceress nodded. She frowned, then began the spell.

  “Show us now and as you may

  any of Sturinn near us in any way…”

  The sole image was that of a man in gray mounted and accompanied by two Sturinnese lancers and two in the crimson of Dumar.

  “That explains much,” Richina said.

  “We knew he was a Sea-Priest,” pointed out Alcaren, who had just come back down the stairs. “What is disturbing is that there were Sturinnese lancers close enough to meet him.” He had a length of a dried plant of some sort, which he immersed in the bucket he had brought earlier. He began to knead the plant while keeping it underwater.

  “They were here all the time, I’d wager,” said Secca. “They were in Dumaran uniforms. Those two probably changed to make sure they don’t get attacked by their own forces when they reach the Sturinnese forces.”

  “You need to hold steady,” Alcaren said, taking the damp stringy fibrous mass from the bucket and placing it across her cheek.

  “Ooo…”

  “It’s for burns. It is the only thing that might help.” He guided her hands. “Just hold it there for a while.”

  Keeping the plant poultice against her injured cheek with one hand, Secca leaned against Alcaren. Her face still burned, despite the flour he had used to blot away whatever liquid Fehern had thrown. She could feel that her upper left arm was bruised badly and would be sore for days, if not weeks.


  “I should have listened to what I felt,” she murmured. “Anna told me to trust my feelings. And Palian warned me. I ignored her wisdom. I should have asked more from her. It would have saved much effort and many lives.”

  “You could not have known,” he answered, putting an arm around her uninjured shoulder and gently squeezing. “How could you have known?”

  “Known? I couldn’t.” She straightened, looking her consort in the eyes, and ignoring the concern she saw. “That’s why feelings are better.”

  She wouldn’t soon ignore those feelings, and the burning lines on her face would remind her in the days to come, and if she had scars, those would remind her forever.

  At least, she had survived this mistake…and lesson.

  35

  Using the late-afternoon light coming through the upper window of the dwelling that remained her temporary headquarters, Secca looked in the mirror, studying her face closely. While most of the red splotches from the morning’s encounter with Fehern had begun to fade, the worst remained. A line of red-burned flesh, less than a fingertip wide, ran from the outside corner of her left eye straight down her cheek and under her jaw. The flesh around the acid-water wound was tender, with a lingering burning.

  “Dissonance, I was stupid.” She shook her head, regretting the motion as the wound on her cheek felt as though it had been whipped with fire. “I did not think he would try to kill me with you and Richina present, not during a meeting. I should have known. I should have thought.”

  “Wisdom,” Alcaren said lightly, “is the product of experience, and experience comes from mistakes.”

  “It’s better if we learn from other’s mistakes. It takes much less effort.” Secca replied wryly. “I should have asked Palian.”

  “I will try to remember that,” Alcaren said wryly. “We could use less effort.”

  Giving him a faint smile, Secca turned from the mirror and sat down on the wooden chair beside the bed barely wide enough for the two of them. The chair wobbled as her weight settled in place. “We’re in a worse situation than when we started. We have fewer lancers and no allies. We’re in the middle of a land without a ruler, and people are likely to be hostile because we killed Fehern. We haven’t done anything about the Sturinnese, and I have no doubts that matters are getting worse in Neserea.”