Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  “The lancers are ready,” announced Secca’s consort.

  “Best we be going,” Secca said.

  “Best I get Bretnay into the saddle,” said Palian dryly, turning her mount back toward the players, who all were mounted, save Bretnay, who looked helplessly at a snapped lashing thong while struggling to hold her violino case and the reins to her mount with her other hand.

  “There is always one,” Secca murmured, more to herself, before turning to Alcaren. “How do you feel?”

  “A little tired,” he admitted. “How about you?”

  “The same.”

  “How did you know it would be this way?” he asked.

  “Lady Anna told me about spells that have a lasting effect. That was how she created the dam on the Falche, the one that caused the flood of Dumar, but she didn’t know what she’d done until she was so tired that it broke in her sleep.”

  “Column forward!” came Wilten’s order.

  “Forward!” echoed Delcetta in a slightly higher voice, and one that carried farther.

  As she rode past the last small hut, Secca glanced around and back at the dozen or so hovels and cottages seemingly strewn at odd angles beside the road above the narrow Envar River. She hoped the people who had fled their arrival had not suffered too much.

  For a time, she rode silently as the sun rose over the low rolling hills to the east, hills that flanked the river on both north and south. She pulled down the brim of the green felt hat, but still found herself squinting against the slowly rising sun.

  “I can imagine how sorcery and countersorcery could become ever more involved,” Alcaren ventured after a time. “Before one knew it, nothing could be done for all the counterspells to the counterspells.”

  “And the spells to counter those?” questioned Secca lightly, not really wanting to think, for the moment, about the implications of what she had begun.

  “There must be ways around such,” offered Richina.

  “Indeed?” replied Alcaren.

  “You had a thought, Richina?” asked Secca, kindly, turning and smiling at the blonde, trying to draw out the younger sorceress.

  “What if the spell were not directed at the sorcerer?” asked Richina.

  Alcaren laughed. After a moment, so did Secca, partly because of Richina’s words, and partly because her practical approach again reminded Secca of Richina’s mother.

  “So simple, yet so profound,” Alcaren said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” Richina said, almost primly, “what about the great waves of the Sea-Priests? Or if you created a deep pit in the ground under a sorcerer?”

  “Or had part of a mountain break off so that it would fall where a sorcerer might be?” suggested Secca.

  “Still…” Alcaren mused. “Could you not sing a spell against physical harm?”

  “I probably could,” replied Secca. “How long would we have the strength to hold it?”

  Her consort nodded.

  Secca frowned. “It might be a good idea to develop such a spell, for use in dire straits.”

  “It might,” Alcaren said. “I would hope we would not need such.”

  “I wager that the Sea-Priests already know how to do that,” Secca replied. “Each season we learn more about what they do know.”

  “Why did not the lady Anna—” Alcaren broke off his question. “She was from the Mist Worlds.”

  “Ah…lady, ser…” Richina cleared her throat.

  “Why don’t you explain?” Secca suggested to Alcaren with a grin. “You seem to understand her better than we do.”

  Alcaren offered a wide and sheepish smile. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  The older sorceress waited.

  Alcaren shrugged. “My lady, if you would correct me if I err…”

  “I’d be delighted, ser.” Secca softened the words with a warm smile, “but I may get little chance, since you err so seldom.”

  Alcaren winced, then cleared his throat. “As you have told me, when the lady Anna came to Liedwahr, there was but one sorcerer in all of Defalk, and that was Lord Brill. He was most close-mouthed, and he died under the onslaught of the Dark Monks at the Sand Pass. Lady Anna came from the Mist Worlds, where sorcery was less effective, and she had never used sorcery in the fashion that the Evult or the Sea-Priests did. She learned almost all about sorcery, except for the mechanics of singing, in which she was most expert, by reading and by herself. Because she came from elsewhere, she viewed matters differently, and because she was so powerful and so uncontested…I would surmise that she never needed spells of defense.”

  “But there were Sea-Priests then,” Richina protested.

  Secca shook her head. “Not really. There were but a few sorcerers in Dumar, and most were killed by the river.” She cocked her head. “I would also wager that, then, the Sea-Priests had fewer sorcerers and had not thought about such spells, either.”

  “They have developed such because of you and the others,” Alcaren said.

  “There is still much we do not know,” Secca admitted, “but what has happened has been too well planned not to have been developed over years and years.”

  “Distance affects spells as well,” Alcaren added. “The storm spells…your message tubes…”

  “So a spell of defense should work better against a spell cast from a greater distance,” theorized Secca, “because a spell cast from a distance is not so strong?”

  “I would guess so.” Alcaren shrugged. “But who would know?”

  Who would know? There were so many things like that facing them, reflected Secca, and she was stumbling, just trying to outguess a Maitre of Sturinn who had planned his conquest of Liedwahr for years, who had developed an entire company of sorcerers and drummers, and who had already left a quarter of the continent defenseless—except for whatever she and those with her could do.

  Secca’s eyes drifted over the grasses that flanked the road. Occasional thin sprigs of green grass had begun to appear at the base of the winter-tan stalks of older grass, and every so often there was the lower white and purple of a spring flower hugging the ground. Spring flowers were a sign of good luck.

  She certainly hoped so.

  63

  Wei, Norawei

  The faintest of taps echoes from the door to Ashtaar’s small audience chamber and private study. Ignoring the sound, Ashtaar coughs once then twice, into the green cloth and takes a sip from the beaker on the corner of the polished ebony of the table-desk, a surface that contains neither scrolls nor papers.

  Finally, she replies. “You may enter.”

  The heavyset and dark-haired seer steps inside and bows, once, and then again, nervously. Her eyes dart around the dimly lit chamber and finally fix on the front of the desk, and not upon the silver-haired woman seated behind it.

  “Sit down and calm yourself, Escadra,” Ashtaar says tiredly. “I do not torture or kill messengers for the truth of what they bring. I do get angry with those who attempt to hide truth from me or from anyone on the Council.”

  “Yes, Leader. Yes, Leader.” Escadra’s eyes still do not light upon Ashtaar, but upon the surface of the desk just before the older woman.

  Ashtaar gestures for the seer to begin her report, then sits back in her straight-backed chair ever so slightly, the fingers of one hand lightly caressing the time-and-finger-worn ovoid of dark agate.

  “The lord Belmar is dead, slain by sorcery, and the Sea-Priests have moved all of their forces that remained in Dumar northward into Neserea. They sealed the trade pass and left Dumar before the Shadow Sorceress could reach them.” Escadra swallows. “Yet the lancers of Lord Belmar follow the Sturinnese toward the Liedfuhr’s forces in the Great Western Forest. They are Nesereans, and they follow a Sturinnese, and willingly so. I am reporting what we have seen. The Shadow Sorceress is riding away from Neserea, southward, and quickly.” The chunky seer looks helplessly at Ashtaar. “That is what has happened, Leader Ashtaar, by the harmonies.”

&
nbsp; “What of the Lady High Counselor and her mother?”

  “They remain in Esaria, but only the palace guard remains faithful. Even so, none will yet move against the palace.”

  “Not yet.” Ashtaar lifts the green cloth to her mouth and covers it, then coughs once. She lowers it to her lap, then takes a sip from the beaker. “The Sturinnese fleet?”

  “Their sorcerers are melting the ice, but they must clear many deks—”

  “How many?”

  “We cannot tell. Ice is still water, Leader.”

  “You can tell whether it seems like a great deal or not a great deal.”

  “I would guess perhaps fifty deks, but that is a guess.”

  “Another two weeks at least, then, perhaps three,” muses Ashtaar.

  “Leader?” Escadra’s voice is tentative.

  “Yes?”

  “I…none of us understand why the Shadow Sorceress—”

  “Nothing is as it seems, not when sorcery and the Sea-Priests are involved,” Ashtaar explains, her words measured. “Most of Belmar’s lancers were doubtless Sturinnese or mercenaries hired with Sturinnese gold, but mercenaries posing as Nesereans. He was a fool not to guess such, but all of us can be deceived into seeing what we wish to see. That said, their loyalty is to Sturinn, or its golds. The Shadow Sorceress is young as sorceresses go, but she is anything but a fool. Belmar is dead, doubtless by Sea-Priest sorcery. It matters not how that happened. He would have died sooner or later, when it served Sturinn’s interests. You say the passes are blocked. Even if the Shadow Sorceress could use sorcery to open them, what would it gain her?”

  “She could pursue the Sturinnese.”

  “Could she catch them?”

  “Oh…”

  “The Sturinnese plan that they will hold all of Neserea before she can reach them. They also plan that she will be held from attacking them by the very mountains. She knows both, I wager. There will be ships at Narial, I wager, and she will sail to Esaria, arriving there far more swiftly than if she fought her way through the spring mud of southern Neserea. The Sea-Priests will be slowed, even with their sorcery, by that very mud, and by the need to deal with the Liedfuhr’s lancers. Also, how can anyone deliver a message to the Shadow Sorceress while she is at sea?” Ashtaar laughs, a sound more like a cackle. “The real question is whether that spineless idiot in Falcor has enough sense to do nothing.”

  Escadra’s eyes widen, but she says nothing.

  “He doesn’t do anything well. What he does best is nothing, and that is what he should do now. But we cannot count on that.” Ashtaar coughs again into the green cloth, this time repeatedly. It takes several sips from the beaker before she can continue. “After you leave, have a messenger summon Marshal Zeltaar for me, if you would.”

  “Yes, Leader.” Escadra finally meets the dark eyes of the older woman.

  “I’m not dead yet, Escadra, and I can still think. Now…go fetch the marshal.”

  “Yes, Leader. Right away, Leader.” Escadra rises and backs out of the study.

  Ashtaar forces herself to take another sip from the beaker.

  64

  The closer Secca’s forces came to Dumaria, the emptier and more deserted the road seemed to become, with few tracks in the clay, despite the clear and cloudless sky. The hovels, cottages, and dwellings that could be seen from the main road were shuttered and silent, without even the thin plumes of smoke that might have signified someone inside.

  Had frightened farmers and their families been huddling inside? Or had they fled when the Sturinnese had swept through, fearing yet to return? Secca wondered.

  “Empty, is it not?” asked Alcaren.

  Under a hazy sky, the rolling hills had subsided into a flat plain, with untilled fields on either side of the road. A good dek ahead, on the west side of the large plateaulike hill that held Dumaria, were what looked to be two white stone gateposts, tall enough that they were clearly visible, but there was no gate attached to either post, nor walls or earthworks. Behind the gates was a gently rising slope, on top of which were trees and dwellings.

  “That must be Dumaria, according to the maps and the scouts,” Secca observed.

  “The scouts say that the city is half-empty, but there are few signs of destruction or fire, and the Sturinnese have been gone from here for nearly half a season,” Alcaren said. “One wonders why.”

  “There are riders heading toward us.” Secca pointed.

  As they watched, Wilten and a squad of lancers rode forward to meet the handful of men on horse who approached. After both groups halted and a brief exchange ensued, Wilten turned and rode back toward the vanguard and Secca.

  Secca turned in the saddle. “Richina, perhaps you should bring out your lutar and stand ready with the short flame spell.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  “Palian?”

  “We stand ready to dismount and play.”

  Wilten slowed his mount as he neared Secca. “Lady Secca, they are a deputation from the Merchants’ Council, welcoming you to Dumaria and beseeching you to treat the city and its inhabitants kindly.”

  What else would you do? Secca forced a smile. “I will speak to one of them as we ride.”

  “I will have him escorted with lancers, if you would not mind.”

  “That would be fine. Richina also has her lutar ready.”

  “I will tell them that as well.” Wilten smiled grimly and turned his mount back toward the deputation.

  “Wilten has little love for them,” mused Alcaren. “They must have been less than courteous.”

  “Or excessively so,” suggested Secca.

  Alcaren laughed.

  Before long, three figures rode along the dusty road toward Secca and her entourage—a heavy man flanked by two lancers. Both lancers had their sabres unsheathed. The older man looked from one to the other as he rode, then realized he was nearing Secca and reined up abruptly. He bowed awkwardly and deeply in the saddle.

  “Lady Secca, Sorceress Protector of Defalk. Know that we supplicate you,” offered the heavyset man in a dark brown leather jacket trimmed in golden braid. “We know that nothing can stand before you, and we offer freely once more our allegiance to you and to Lord Robero. Know that we surrendered unwillingly to the Sea-Priests, and only when we were abandoned by Lord Fehern. We will lead you to the palace. It too stands open to you, as does all Dumaria.”

  “Thank you,” Secca replied. “I trust you will not mind if whatever you say is heard by those around me.” She gestured for the merchant to ride so that Alcaren remained between her and the merchant as the column resumed its progress toward Dumaria.

  They had traveled less than fifty yards when the man finally spoke once more, his tone of voice uncertain. “Lady Secca, you know that there is no Lord High Counselor in Dumar.”

  “That is true, but there will be,” Secca replied. “I am most certain that there will be. Lord Eryhal and Lady Aerfor have escaped the Sturinnese and are well.”

  The merchant’s eyes widened. “Eryhal—he was said to be much like Lord Clehar, save that he was considered more thoughtful.”

  “I cannot say what Lord Robero will do,” Secca said, “but I would think it likely that he would wish a Lord High Counselor both loyal to Defalk and in favor with the lords and people of Dumar. Also, the Liedfuhr of Mansuur might be better disposed toward Lord Eryhal.” She turned in the saddle and leaned forward to fix her eyes on the man. “How would your lords feel about Eryhal?”

  “The landed lords…there are none left here in Dumaria, and they seldom speak to merchants.” The merchant laughed nervously. “I venture that there will be none returned to Dumaria until they see from which quarter the summer wind blows.”

  After they rode past the white stone gate pillars, the road continued straight for two hundred yards before angling to the right and winding up the slope toward a line of leafless trees. From behind the trees rose a white-marbled palace. As the vanguard turned uphill, Secca could see that the windin
g way that climbed the hill was also empty, as appeared to be the large and impressive homes that flanked the road.

  Across a small parklike space, Secca could see a fountain shaped like a spray of marble flowers standing in the middle of a scallop-shaped pond, but the fountain was not spraying water. Around the pond was a garden, where short green bushes alternated with larger leafless ones. The way into the grounds was barred by a pair of iron gates, as were the lanes into most of the dwellings along the avenue. Not a soul appeared on any of the well-trimmed grounds.

  “The wealthy have indeed departed,” said Alcaren.

  “Along with a few others,” Secca replied.

  Beside Alcaren, the merchant nodded, quickly and jerkily.

  There were no dwellings up the hill, near the top, where the avenue widened and leveled out. A hundred yards farther east was an arched iron gate that straddled the road, but both sides of the gate were swung back. Beyond, past the winter-brown grass of the grounds, lay the marble palace.

  As the vanguard and those with Secca rode through what once had to have been the royal park of Lord Ehara, and later his successors, such as Fehern, Secca took in the trimmed topiary displaying a range of game animals, a low boxwood hedge maze, and two marble fountains.

  When they neared the palace building, Wilten gestured to the vanguard. “Companies halt!”

  In turn, Secca and Alcaren and the others reined up on the smooth-joined paved road less than two hundred yards from the palace.

  With the lancers halted, Wilten rode back to Secca. “With your permission, Lady Secca, I would have the lancers search the building and grounds before you enter.”

  “Please go ahead.” Secca smiled. “If our merchant friend is correct, there should be no one here.”

  Wilten nodded and turned his mount, then reined up and stood in the stirrups. “Purple company. Search the grounds. Green company, the first floor.” He turned to Delcetta, who had reined up several yards away.

  “Second company, the second floor, third company, the upper floor,” ordered the SouthWoman overcaptain.