Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Someone told Fehern how to deal with a sorceress,” mused Alcaren. “It was audacious and well planned. It didn’t work because you had Richina well trained with a blade and because you didn’t let Fehern know everything about her and me.”

  “At least, I did something right.” Secca snorted gently. “Or partly right.” She paused. “Did you find out about his pay chests and golds?”

  “They were in his quarters. He didn’t have that much.” Alcaren grinned. “About five hundred golds, plus another smaller chest with some jewels in his own gear. They might be worth a thousand.”

  “That will help, at least for food.”

  “Where there’s anyone to sell it to us,” he said dryly.

  “I’m not very good at this,” she said slowly. “I have trouble concealing what I feel. I get too angry and act too quickly. I cannot do one thing while feeling something different.”

  Alcaren waited, listening.

  “I could not have turned Richina over to Fehern, no matter what, and I could not have talked sweetly enough to make him think I would.” Secca pursed her lips. “Even now, I could not do that.”

  “You are what you are, my lady, and for that I love you.” Alcaren stepped behind the chair and put his overlarge hands on her shoulders.

  “You are doubtless the only one.”

  “Few people like those who do what must be done. Always, that has been.” Alcaren laughed, once. “And always it will be.”

  “I’m not certain I am doing what must be done.”

  “Lord Robero would not have wanted a traitor as Lord High Counselor of Dumar.” Alcaren cocked his head to the side, then stepped sideways to the small window. “I see Delcetta and Wilten riding toward the inn.”

  “They’ll be here shortly, then.” Secca stood and headed for the narrow staircase. “I hope she took care of the rest of the Dumaran lancers.”

  “Given Delcetta, I would not wager on their survival.”

  Secca smiled briefly, grimly, as she started down the stairs, with Alcaren directly behind her.

  As she walked into the lower sitting room, Secca’s eyes darted to the rear, where Fehern had died. Both the body and the blood were gone. She had told Alcaren to have the bodies buried quietly. One way or another, with the Sturinnese invaders and the Dumaran succession a mess already, it wouldn’t matter, and she had no desire to have what amounted to a state funeral in any form—not after Fehern’s treachery.

  Richina looked up at the two from where she sat at the conference table. “Lady…are you feeling better?”

  “My voice is fine, but my face still hurts. It probably will for days.” If not weeks, and it serves you right for being so stupid.

  “Acid-water…that…” Richina winced.

  “What Alcaren did helped.”

  “Not so much as I would have liked,” he said.

  “It would have been much worse had you not been there.” Secca smiled at her consort. The smile hurt, too, but not so much. “After the meeting,” the older sorceress told Richina, “you will use a spellsong to send the scroll I wrote earlier today to Lord Robero.”

  Richina nodded.

  “He should know of Fehern’s treachery. We will see, when this is all settled, but perhaps the younger brother, the one consorted to Aerfor, might be a suitable Lord High Counselor. That is not my decision.” Secca cleared her throat. “Before the others arrive, it might be wise to see where the renegade sorcerer is.” She looked to her consort. “Would you mind singing the scrying spell?”

  “If you had not suggested it, my lady, I would have. You need to recover your strength.” Alcaren picked up the lumand and sang.

  “Show us now and in clear light

  Fehern’s sorcerer who took to flight…”

  The mirror displayed the same man, except he was now clad in white and stood in a tent, talking with three other Sturinnese, all of whom had golden insignia on their tunic collars.

  “So it was planned from the beginning,” Richina said.

  “We knew he was a Sea-Priest,” pointed out Alcaren. “What is disturbing is that there were Sturinnese lancers close enough to meet him.”

  “That is not the only disturbing matter,” added Secca.

  “You think that Clehar’s death was part of it, and that they had groomed Fehern so that he would surrender to them?” asked Richina.

  “No.” Secca shook her head. “Much as I can be certain of anything. If that were the case, Fehern would not have waited so long.”

  “The Sea-Priests wanted to use the Dumarans to weaken our forces, because they did not think they could get close enough to you,” suggested Alcaren.

  “That is closer to what I feel. Yet, if so, they would have already attacked while we were hard-pressed.” Secca frowned, then pursed her lips. “There is more to it than that, but what I cannot discern.”

  “The overcaptains and chief players!” called Gorkon from the door.

  “Have them come in.” Secca looked at Richina. “If you would sing any spells for scrying?”

  “Of course, Lady Secca. You should not be singing now.” The younger woman’s voice carried more concern than Secca had heard before.

  Why? Because Fehern’s attempted treachery had shown that even powerful sorceresses could be hurt or killed? Again, Secca wasn’t sure her thoughts were on the pitch.

  Secca slipped toward the table and the ragtag assemblage of chairs and stools around it.

  Traces of road dust still clung to Delcetta’s boots, clothes, and hair, although she had clearly washed her face after her pursuit of the fleeing Dumarans. There were also darker splotches on her trousers, most likely blood.

  Wilten looked more dusty than Delcetta, and he inclined his head to Secca. “You look better than when I last saw you, Lady Secca.”

  “I feel somewhat better.”

  Palian’s countenance was drawn, but, after studying Secca’s face, the chief player offered a faint smile. Delvor offered a wan smile as well.

  Secca returned the smiles, then seated herself at the table, waiting for the others. Finally, once everyone was settled, she turned to the SouthWoman overcaptain. “How fared your pursuit?”

  “The rearguard company was the sole one beyond the reach of your spell, Lady Sorceress. We cornered them by the mill. Only two of them escaped. One made the river and dived in, and the other had a fast mount.” Delcetta shrugged. “Overcaptain Wilten and I had our lancers inspect all the outlying cots and barns and dwellings. We found one other. He made it easy. He tried to take Captain Peraghn with a scythe.”

  Secca nodded slowly. Two lancers surviving from ten companies. What a terrible waste, and yet, under the circumstances, what else could she have done? Could she have come up with another spell? She had put herself in a position where she hadn’t had the time. Stupidity, again. “How many lancers are wounded?”

  “We have perhaps a half-score, and but one seriously,” replied Wilten.

  “A quarter-score,” said Delcetta. “Saving the squad guarding you, lady, the red beasts did not attack us so quickly as they did your lancers.”

  “Could you both ride out tomorrow?”

  “That we could,” Delcetta said.

  Wilten nodded slowly.

  Secca looked to Palian and Delvor.

  “Nuel was the sole player killed. Kylera has a bruised arm and a swollen finger. She laid out a Dumaran with a plank.” Palian shook her head, ruefully. “The Dumaran did not rise, even before the flames, but his mount struck the plank and wrenched it from her hands.” She looked to Delvor.

  “Dossin has a slash on his left arm, but it will heal.” Delvor brushed back the unruly lank hair that had flopped down over his forehead ever since Secca had known him.

  The redheaded sorceress surveyed those around the table, then said, “We do not know what the Sturinnese may have done since midday. I had thought to have you all here before we decided.”

  On cue, Richina slipped off the stool and picked up her lutar.<
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  “Show us where upon a map of this land…”

  The mirror displayed the map that had become all too familiar, with the white stars showing the position of the Sturinnese forces. The northern force appeared to be settled at the small trading town south of the mouth of the trading pass to Neserea. The larger group of Sturinnese was farther from Hasjyl—and Envaryl—than it had been.

  Once everyone had a chance to study the glass, Secca motioned to Richina. The younger sorceress sang the release spell, then set aside the lutar and reseated herself on the stool she had been using.

  “They’ve turned back east—the ones that were heading for Envaryl,” observed Wilten.

  That didn’t surprise Secca at all. She would have been shocked to find the Sturinnese still moving toward her.

  “You do not look surprised, Lady Secca,” offered Palian.

  “The Sturinnese do not wish a battle now. That is clear.” Clear it was, but the reasons why an enemy who had always attacked had changed tactics were most unclear. While Secca would have liked to flatter herself that it was because the Sturinnese had come to respect her sorcery, she doubted that was the reason. “It may be that they avoid battle to keep us from going northward to aid the Lady High Counselor.”

  “Or because they feel that they can triumph in Neserea quickly and then move against you,” suggested Wilten.

  “All are possible.” Secca paused. “We may still ride tomorrow. We will see where the Sea-Priests are in the morning.”

  Her feelings told her that they would be farther away, but not far enough away for Secca to ignore. They also told her that she needed rest, more than she would probably get for weeks, if not seasons.

  She offered yet another polite smile. “We will meet tomorrow at the second glass after dawn. Then we will see what we must do.”

  36

  West of Itzel, Neserea

  Clayre eases the shutter of the small dwelling ajar and peers out at the fat and fast-falling flakes of snow that have so quickly recovered the roads and even the field that had shown signs of brown in the days previous. “Already two spans’ worth has fallen, and the clouds are darker than earlier in the day.”

  From behind her, Diltyr shakes his head.

  So does the gray-haired lancer captain who paces back and forth before the heap of embers in the small hearth—the remnants of the fire set at midday, after Clayre and her forces had taken refuge from the sudden storm in the nameless hamlet.

  “Even the weather is against us,” mutters Diltyr.

  “At this time of year,” Clayre responds, “the weather is against all. The harmonies care not if we need fair weather.” She closes and fastens the shutters once more, then steps toward the low embers, where she bends forward to warm her hands.

  “If we must wait out the storm, will not Belmar soon discern your sorcery?” asks the captain.

  “No. The storm makes it less likely. Were it clear and sunny, he would wonder why his glass shows me in Nysl’s keep. Now…he will not question.” Her lips tighten. “So…while we have made little progress toward his forces, we are no worse off. Not for the moment.”

  “But…the storm will fill the roads and passes, and it will be longer yet before any aid can reach us,” suggests the chief player.

  “There will be little enough of that,” Clayre says darkly. “Lord Robero will not send his last full sorceress to succor us with the Sturinnese holding almost all of Dumar. His last scroll suggests that if we cannot soon defeat the usurper, I should consider returning to Defalk. That…that I would rather not, for we might well have to fight again, on our own lands.”

  The chief player frowns momentarily before speaking quickly. “What of the Liedfuhr? Would his aid assist us?”

  “He may well send his lancers—once the snows melt, but the passes to the west are higher and colder. He has too few ships to risk the Bitter Sea. He has no sorcerers to send, and against Belmar even scores of companies of lancers may not suffice.”

  “You risk much in attempting to destroy Belmar,” Diltyr says slowly. “Lord Robero fears such a risk.”

  “I risk more in not attempting it. He raises more lancers every week, even in winter. Were we to meet in direct battle, our two companies of lancers could not hold back his hordes long enough for me to sing a single spell.”

  “What will you now?” asks the brown-haired player.

  “Take a smaller group to attack his forces once we can ride, and before he thinks we can move. He will expect caution, and he will expect us to move toward Esaria to protect the Lady Counselor.”

  “How fares she?”

  “She still holds Esaria, but not much more. Aerfor and Eryhal have made their way to Nordwei—or so the glass shows.”

  “How…?”

  “They are both quite capable, it appears.” Clayre laughs. “They are among the few, it would seem.” After a moment, she sighs. “We will wait. That is all we can do. For now.”

  37

  In the early-afternoon light of a sun that looked warmer than it felt, Secca shifted her weight in the saddle, and the gray mare whuffed as she carried Secca southward on the road from the ford to the west of Hasjyl. The wind was lighter than it had been that morning, and carried the scent of thawing ground and winter-damp vegetation, but Secca still had her green riding jacket fastened snugly. She wore the green felt hat, pulled down over red hair that was always disheveled. Then, and ever since she had been a child, whether her hair had been long or cut short, somehow it had always ended up disarrayed.

  According to the glass, the Sea-Priests had taken over a hilltop hamlet some twenty deks to the east and were settling in. Secca had decided to ride eastward to a hamlet eight or nine deks away from the Sturinnese, before attempting an attack on the following day. With Fehern’s treachery, she had no longer had to worry about the Sturinnese circling behind her. All she had to do was defeat the Sturinnese. A rueful smile appeared on the redheaded sorceress’s face. All?

  On the flat and straight stretch of road ahead, Wilten, Delcetta, and Alcaren conferred with the scouts who had just returned. After the brief conference on horseback, Alcaren turned his mount and headed back toward Secca. As he neared, he turned his mount to ride alongside her.

  “We are about two deks from that ridge.” Secca’s consort pointed toward the low rise the road climbed before them. “The hamlet where we plan to overnight is in the swale below that rise.”

  “We should stop and use the scrying glass to see if there are any Sturinnese nearby, and what they may be doing. I’d rather not ride into an ambush.”

  “I’ll tell the overcaptains. The lancers and their mounts could use the rest, so long as they don’t get chilled.”

  “It won’t take long.” Secca smiled and turned to Richina. “Will it, Richina?”

  Richina smiled back. “Not at all.”

  Secca dismounted and unfastened the leather-wrapped glass from behind her saddle. Carrying the mirror with one hand, she walked the mare off the shoulder of the road and to a spot where the grass was thick and had been flattened. Belatedly, Achar rode after her, and took the mare’s reins. After loosening the leather thongs, Secca eased the mirror out of the wrapping, then spread the leather on the flattened grass and centered the mirror on the leather.

  Richina had followed. She dismounted. Achar took the younger sorceress’s mount as well. Richina then unstrapped her lutar and joined Secca.

  As Richina tuned her lutar, Wilten and Delcetta eased their mounts to a halt nearby, then dismounted. Handing the reins to a SouthWoman lancer, Delcetta walked toward Richina and Secca. Wilten looked at the lancer, who smiled and took the reins to his mount as well.

  The last one to arrive in the circle around the scrying glass was Alcaren.

  After looking at Secca’s consort, Richina finished a second vocalise, then cleared her throat. She bent over the glass and sang.

  “Show us now and in afternoon light

  the Sturinnese we seek to fight…�
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  The more distant hilltop hamlet appeared much as it had in earlier uses of the scrying glass, except that a patrol of riders—a good half squad—rode northward away from the lake.

  “They are sending out scouts,” Wilten said.

  “Wouldn’t you?” asked Alcaren.

  “This late in the day?” Delcetta’s tone was innocently open, but her eyebrows lifted with the question.

  “They’re watching us in a glass,” Secca said.

  “But the camp is quiet,” pointed out Wilten.

  That worried Secca. Then, whatever the Sturinnese did worried her. She looked at Richina. “Can you do one about the hamlet ahead?”

  Richina nodded, then cocked her head. Finally, she sang.

  “Show us now and as you will

  the hamlet ahead below the hill,

  and if enemies waiting that there be,

  show us clearly so that we may see…”

  The glass displayed a view from above of five dwellings. Two men pitched hay from an open cart into a pen containing a handful of cattle. A girl carried two buckets on a yoke, moving from the stream toward one of the houses.

  “You wouldn’t see that if there were Sea-Priests around,” Alcaren observed.

  “We will still send scouts first,” Wilten declared, looking to Secca.

  She nodded. “In dealing with the Sturinnese, when we can, we should be cautious.” Despite her words, she had a strong sense that to defeat the Sturinnese she would have to be anything but cautious.

  “That we should,” affirmed Wilten.

  Alcaren caught Secca’s eye. They exchanged faint smiles, and Secca knew that her consort felt as she did.