“Lord Alcaren judges that the lord is still two deks to the west. He asked me to wake you.”
Secca bent over and pulled on her boots. “Tell him I’m getting ready.”
By the time she had eaten some bread and cheese, and made herself vaguely presentable, the dull headache had subsided, as had the daystars—mostly. She fastened the green leather jacket loosely and stepped outside into a day that was not quite so sunny as the one previous. A high thin haze had turned the sky a pale blue, and a gentle and warmer breeze flowed out of the west across the flat of the sheltered meadow that lay slightly below the ridge road.
“Good morning, Lady Secca,” offered Rukor, from his post outside the tent. His voice was cheerful.
Secca smiled. “Good morning, Rukor, Dymen. I hope you got some rest.”
“That we did, lady,” answered Dymen. “We just relieved Achar and Easlon, less than a glass ago.”
All three turned as Alcaren rode up, almost as if he had been watching for her. “I hope you don’t mind. You were tired, and I thought you should get some more sleep, if you could.”
“I was tired,” Secca admitted. “Do you know who this lord is?”
“The scouts said that he calls himself Sylonn, and that the area around Hasjyl is his demesne. He told one of them that his uncle was Lord Ehara’s cousin.”
Ehara? The Lord of Dumar that Anna had defeated and destroyed? Secca frowned.
“He wants something, and he wants you to know that you should treat with him,” Alcaren observed.
“He could want almost anything the way matters are now,” Secca replied dryly. “Protection from the last of the Sturinnese, my assurance that he will keep his lands, a consort for him or his son, a bridge built…” She shook her head, thinking of all the possibilities.
Richina approached from the cookfire. “Lady…if I might…”
“You may stay,” Secca said.
Alcaren turned. “Here he comes.”
“If you would stand ready,” Secca requested, looking at him.
“I will remain mounted, my lady,” her consort said with a laugh, “with my hand near my blade.”
Both Dymen and Rukor stepped forward, each standing a yard to the side and slightly in front of Secca. Richina stepped back toward the tent.
The five watched as Delcetta led two riders away from the column and toward Secca and Alcaren. One was a standard-bearer, and the rider who followed the banner wore gray—a gray leather riding jacket, gray trousers and boots, and an odd-looking and short-brimmed gray riding hat. The only color in his attire was a scarlet scarf knotted loosely around his neck.
Delcetta reined up a good ten yards from Secca, her eyes still on the two riders who had followed her. “Lady Secca, Lord Sylonn of Dumar has requested a moment of your time.”
“Thank you, Overcaptain.” Secca nodded to the Dumaran. “Welcome, Lord Sylonn.”
Sylonn dismounted, handing the reins of the gray stallion to the standard-bearer, who was also attired all in gray, but without the crimson scarf. Then the Dumaran lord took two steps toward Secca and bowed. “Lady Sorceress. I am Sylonn, Lord of Hesodryll, and most faithful subject of Dumar and of Lord Robero.” Sylonn’s hair was black and silver, but his square-trimmed beard was entirely silver. His small and deep-set brown eyes went to Alcaren, as if asking for an explanation.
Secca ignored the silent inquiry. “It is good to see a lord and loyal subject of Lord Robero. I must apologize for my appearance and for my not paying my respects to you, but we have been occupied—as you must know—with the Sturinnese.”
Sylonn bowed a second time, then straightened. His flat brown eyes did not quite meet Secca’s amber ones when he began to speak. “All Dumar is grateful to you for your efforts. We had feared that everything would be lost.”
“We have not finished with those of Sturinn,” Secca said gently. “There is still another force to the north. There also may be Sturinnese vessels sailing to Narial from the Ostisles.”
“Lady Sorceress…you have come to Dumar, as did the last great sorceress, and you have destroyed all the Sturinnese that have faced you. All know that you will destroy the remaining Sea-Priests—unless they flee before you can reach them.”
“It cannot be a secret that Defalk does not want the Sea-Priests anywhere in Liedwahr,” Secca temporized, wondering exactly what Sylonn wanted.
“None would want masters from Sturinn. The Sea-Priests will throw down a lord and a family who have served their people for generations. The Sturinnese give not a thought to what a man has done, only to what increases their power.”
Secca didn’t see much difference between the lords of most lands and the Sturinnese in that respect, but she merely said, “Sturinn would not be good for Dumar or any land in Liedwahr.”
“That is most true. Lord Clehar was a good ruler, and his sons would have been as well,” Sylonn continued.
“Would have been?” asked Secca, with a sinking feeling as she realized what was coming.
“You did not know?” Sylonn blinked several times, then shook his head. “Perhaps there would have been no way for you to know.” He shook his head once more.
“If I understand you,” Secca said, “his sons and daughter…?”
“They were found dead in the palace at Dumaria after Clehar died in battle,” Sylonn said. “Many suspected Lord Fehern, but now…who can tell?”
“Did not Lord Fehern have sons from his first consort?” Secca recalled Clayre mentioning that one of Clehar’s brothers had sons. At the thought of Clayre, even though they had not been that close, Secca felt a rush of regret and sadness.
“He had two. That is true, Lady Sorceress, but they have vanished. None can find them. Likewise, Lord Eryhal was in Neserea with his consort…”
“You’d like to know who will be the next Lord High Counselor?” asked Secca, keeping her voice mild and level.
“Ah…” Sylonn glanced away from Secca, toward Alcaren, and then back toward Delcetta, who had also remained mounted and close. “Ah…my holdings are not far from here, and when I heard you were traveling…well…I thought it likely that if anyone knew…that would be you, Great Sorceress.”
Secca managed neither to frown nor to snort at Sylonn’s not-so-veiled ambition. “I appreciate your interest, Lord Sylonn, but I am not the one who will make that decision. It is Lord Robero’s prerogative to name the next Lord High Counselor. I am most certain that he will act as quickly as he can. I will certainly convey your concerns to him as I can…and I thank you for being forthright enough to approach me.”
“Oh…that is all that I can ask.” Sylonn bowed quickly. “It is just that matters have been so unsettled.”
“Battles and fighting can unsettle the most peaceful of lands,” Secca replied. “I will also tell Lord Robero of your concern that matters be settled.”
“Thank you, Lady Sorceress. Thank you.” Sylonn bowed again, as if uncertain as to what he should do next.
“You may go, Lord Sylonn, and I will convey your concerns.” Secca felt as though she were endlessly repeating herself, but she knew she could not and should not commit to more.
After yet another bow, the Dumaran lord turned and walked to his horse, mounting quickly, then following Delcetta and his standard-bearer back toward his personal guard.
Secca watched until she was certain the Dumaran was well out of earshot.
“We haven’t even finished with the Sturinnese, and now we’ll have to deal with the succession problem here in Dumar. If we don’t…” Secca shook her head. “Lords! They won’t support their rulers, or support them as little as possible. Now, they’re all jostling for position practically before the Lord High Counselor’s body has grown cold.”
“Such is life among those who seek power,” observed Alcaren.
“Do you think they all are like that?” asked Richina.
Secca almost jumped at the voice of the younger sorceress standing behind her. Richina had been so silent that Secca had forgotten she w
as there. The older sorceress half turned. “Only those lords still alive. Many would not have been even that indirect.”
“Witness what is happening in Neserea,” Alcaren added. “Lord Hanfor dies, and all wish to be his successor.”
“You’ll notice that the noble lord Sylonn didn’t invite us to share his hospitality,” Secca said with a crooked smile.
“Would you want to?” Alcaren laughed.
“No. I’d be looking in the glass and over my shoulder every moment.” Still…it would have been nice to get a bath and sleep in a good bed—although good beds were rare in most keeps and holdings.
Secca turned to her left to watch as Lord Sylonn’s troop made its way back westward along the ridge road. “We’d better check on the Sturinnese.”
“Ah…” Alcaren flushed.
Secca turned to Richina, who looked down.
“You two already did?”
“Yes, lady,” admitted Richina. “They remain in the same hamlet.”
Secca laughed.
After a moment, so did the other two. A smile even crossed Rukor’s face, although the lancer turned sober-faced as Secca glanced at him.
49
In the late-afternoon light that slanted through the west windows, Secca looked around the sitting room in the merchant’s dwelling. Here she was, back in Hasjyl, a week or so later, with yet another Sturinnese force to confront. Clayre was dead, along with her lancers, both slain by Belmar’s sorcery, and little lay between Belmar and his conquest of Esaria—and Neserea. Not with most of the lords flocking to him, and those who had not being destroyed by sorcery and treachery.
Secca snorted. She was mired in Dumar, a land without a Lord High Counselor, and a land where who knew how many lords were trying to succeed the nefarious and dead Fehern—or wanting to know who would so that they could work their way into positions of power and influence. After weeks of riding and sorcery and storms, she felt bone-tired. And she felt guilty about feeling tired, knowing that her lancers had suffered the weather more, and that Alcaren and Richina had been through everything she had.
Thinking that water and biscuits might help, she lifted the water bottle she had put on the oblong table and took a swallow, following the water with a biscuit that she finished in three bites, hard as the biscuit had been.
“You should have done that earlier, like I suggested,” said Alcaren from just inside the doorway. “Because you’re smaller, you—”
“I know. I need to eat more often. You told me that.” Secca winced at the sharpness of her words, adding quickly and more softly, “I’m sorry. You are right. But it is hard always to be reminded when you’re smaller and less strong than those around you.”
Alcaren laughed. “I would never say less strong. Smaller, yes, and because your stomach is small, it cannot hold as much, and yet because you do more than others, you must eat more often.”
“I know,” Secca said again, not angrily as before, but tiredly.
Hisss…thunk!
A tube of brass appeared on the table, hot enough that Secca could smell the wood under it beginning to heat immediately. She reached for the riding gloves tucked in her belt, but Alcaren was faster, yanking on his gloves and scooping up the tube. He hastened to the end of the long room where he set the tube on the floor. There, he used a wooden dipper to sprinkle water on the tube from the bucket Rukor had brought inside moments before. The water hissed into steam as it struck the heat-tarnished brass.
Alcaren continued to sprinkle the tube with water until the hissing stopped.
Then, almost as quickly as he had seized the tube, Alcaren yanked off his gloves, putting his hands into the bucket of cold water.
“Are you all right?” asked Secca.
“I’m fine. My hands will be a little red, but that will pass.”
“Why?” She glanced at the metal tube.
“It was sent by sorcery, and in haste, because it was hot. If you had picked it up, you would have burned your hands. My gloves are heavier, and I could get to the water. If I hadn’t the messages inside would be charred and unreadable.” Alcaren snorted. “They may be anyway.”
After a time he lifted his hands from the bucket, and held one just above the tube, lowering it slowly. “It is cool enough to open.” He picked up the message tube and handed it to Secca.
She had to force the end cap off the tube. Although the parchment was brown, the ink on the single scroll was dark enough that she could easily read the words.
Dearest Secca,
As you must know from the wrenching of the harmonies, Clayre perished in attempting to defeat Belmar. She destroyed nearly tenscore of his lancers, but that was not enough, and Belmar lost none of his players.
I have not yet told Lord Robero, for I fear that he will send you orders to return to Defalk. He has already begun to talk about reaching some truce with the Sturinnese if we cannot defeat them. Alyssa has told him that he should decide nothing until he sees how matters turn out with you and Clayre, but he told her that she should not presume, and now he paces and frets that you have shown little success…
Secca shook her head and lowered the scroll. Changing his name from Jimbob to Robero hadn’t changed the Lord of Defalk’s character or his self-centered concern about his own power, rather than his people’s needs—or even the needs of the Thirty-three.
“You are angry,” remarked Alcaren, who had been reading the words over her shoulder.
“I am more than angry.” Secca spaced out the words. “He sent Clayre out without an assistant and with but two companies of lancers.”
“Did she not choose to go?”
“She did.” Secca took a deep breath. “But he knew she would not insist on more. Clayre is…she was…too proud.”
Alcaren nodded slowly.
“You think I’m too proud?”
“There is a difference,” he answered carefully, “between pride and foolhardiness. You have trained Richina, and you are training me to help with sorcery. When the need was there, you asked Richina to help. You allow me to assist you. You did not even consider leaving Richina behind, did you?”
“No…” Secca admitted slowly. “But when we left Loiseau, I could not have explained why I brought her. I felt it was right.”
Alcaren smiled. “That is the difference.”
Secca wasn’t sure, but she lifted the scroll and resumed reading.
…He asks me every day whether you have defeated the Sea-Priests…
We have received word from the Council Leader of Wei that Aerfor and Eryhal have fled Neserea and made their way safely into Nordwei. Lady Aerlya and Annayal remain in Esaria, but their forces are diminishing. Many are deserting, and others appear to be asking that Annayal consort with Belmar or even that she request that he become Lord High Counselor—if not Prophet of Music.
The Liedfuhr’s lancers are making their way through the snows of the Mittpass toward Neserea. He had marshaled close to five thousand lancers and armsmen, but those struggling through the snows number far less than that, less than a hundred companies. From what I can scry, Belmar is moving to the southwest, and ignoring Esaria…
“Of course,” murmured Secca.
“If he destroys the Liedfuhr’s lancers, then he will hold Neserea—until we can vanquish him,” Alcaren said softly.
“You are most hopeful, my love,” Secca said softly.
“You can defeat Belmar.”
“But can we defeat Belmar and who knows how many Sturinnese sorcerers?” asked Secca.
“We must.”
With a faint and knowing smile, Secca returned to reading the scroll.
…Lord Robero had asked Lythner if he would act as an envoy to Lord Belmar, should it be necessary. To his credit, Lythner declined and left Falcor. Lord Robero has summoned Lythner’s brother Nerylt from Wendel…
Secca winced. Nerylt was a well-meaning bumbler who would do whatever Robero asked without raising an eyebrow or a question.
…but he has
yet to arrive. So you can see why I dare not tell Lord Robero about Clayre. Yet I can keep that secret only for weeks at best, days at worst. If there is aught you can do, or that I can do for you, please let me know. As matters are proceeding, all will be lost in a season, if not sooner.
Secca looked up from Jolyn’s hasty signature. “I do not know if we can reclaim Dumar in a season.”
“Why reclaim it?” asked Alcaren. “It can be reclaimed as you choose if you can but defeat or drive the Sturinnese out. Without them and Lord Belmar, any one of your sorceresses, even Richina, young as she is, could return Dumar and Neserea to Lord Robero’s rule.”
“That may be true,” Secca agreed, “but there is more to Lord Belmar than meets eye or glass.” She eased the scroll aside.
In the fading afternoon light, sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs before the table and after taking out several scraps of the heavy brown paper and a black grease marker, she began to write.
Alcaren slipped away, only to return with a small wedge of cheese, some thin strips of jerky, and half a loaf of bread, all of which he set by her elbow. “As you write, please eat some of this.”
“Thank you.” She continued to write, occasionally stopping to eat and nodding appreciatively as Alcaren lit the two candles in the shaky candelabra he brought to the table. She ignored the curious look from Richina, who peered into the long room, then slipped away as her consort murmured something to the younger sorceress.
Finally, she sat up erect and handed Alcaren a single sheet. “Can you read that?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I want you to sing that spell.”
In the flickering candlelight, Alcaren studied the words on the brown paper. “You’re assuming a great deal here.”
“If it isn’t so, the glass will come up blank.” Secca smiled. “Can you sing it?”
He frowned. “I might get the glass to show what I want, not what is.”
“It won’t do that. The glass can only show what is, not what was or what might be.”
Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 22
