Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  From the first words, she and Alcaren and the spellsong were one, and from somewhere behind and underneath all that was Erde came an answering sense of harmony.

  “Water boil and water bubble

  like a caldron of sorcerers’ trouble…

  build a storm with winds swirling through

  in spouts that break Sturinn’s ships in two…”

  With another full breath between the stanzas, Secca continued strongly into the second, knowing that she needed to keep the images, and the intensity, through two full stanzas.

  “Ocean boil and ocean bubble

  crush to broken sticks of floating rubble

  ships crewed by those in Sea-Priest white

  and let none escape the water’s might…”

  In the stillness following the last notes, a stillness so absolute that the wind died away and the sails hung limply from the yardarms above, the swells subsided into an unnatural shimmering flatness. The high once-white clouds grayed, and then darkened, and the dark blue expanse of the Western Sea turned almost jet-black under the shimmering surface of the water.

  A low and growling rumble, followed by a high-pitched whistling whine, rose, seemingly from everywhere, and the two sounds merged into a rushing and roaring torrent.

  In the distance, dark gray funnel spouts appeared, funnel spouts that turned jet-black, funnel spouts that also rushed and roared, as they swelled and moved toward the white-sailed and white-hulled Sturinnese vessels.

  Another set of spouts appeared, less than three deks from the Silberwelle, one on each side of the wedge of Sturinnese vessels. Around the Silberwelle, the ocean remained flat, but the sails of the ships in the Sturinnese wedge pitched forward, and then back. The first spout slid into and over the ship on the right edge of the wedge, and white fragments flew upward, streaking the dark water of the spout but momentarily before the water turned even blacker.

  Two more Sturinnese ships vanished into the dark spouts, and the ocean around the Silberwelle was no longer calm, as a swell nearly three yards high surged toward the Ranuan vessel. Another higher swell loomed ahead.

  The wind continued to rise, tearing at Secca.

  “Get below!” Alcaren’s voice rose over the roaring of the wind. “Get below!”

  “To your quarters! Now!” Palian’s higher voice followed Alcaren’s.

  A gust of wind, more like a wall, swept across the poop deck. Secca locked one arm around the railing, then the other as the combined rush of wind and water buffeted her.

  “Keep her steady!” That was Denyst’s order.

  In what Secca knew had to be a momentary lull, Alcaren helped her down the ladder. They both held tight to the bottom of the ladder as another blast of water and wind lashed them. Then Alcaren thrust Secca inside and closed the hatch door. They staggered along the passageway to the captain’s cabin. Secca felt that water gushed from her clothing and her body, and with every step she lurched against one bulkhead or the other.

  She had to fumble with the hatch, then was through the open hatchway into the cabin, ramming into the nearest chair. She managed to hold to the chair back and the table and lever herself into one of the chairs. Alcaren staggered, closing the cabin door, and struggled into the chair beside Secca, putting a hand on the table to brace himself.

  Secca found herself gripping the wooden arms of the chair so tightly that her hands were aching. As the cabin—and the ship—tilted once again, she had to force herself to relax her grip somewhat. “You…were…right…about…storms…”

  “I…wish…I had not been,” replied Alcaren.

  Secca could hear the unhappiness in her consort’s voice, could sense the physical discomfort. He hates being at sea, and yet he has said nothing. A second thought struck her. You feel tired, as with heavy road-building, but only with a headache, and without double vision. Was Alcaren right about concentrating on the spell and not on the results of the spell?

  The Silberwelle pitched forward, hard forward, and the water rushing by the portholes cut off all light. Then as the bow came up, the light returned, only to vanish again with another dipping pitch into another massive swell.

  How long the Silberwelle rode through the heavy swells before the pitching began to abate, Secca had no idea, save that it felt like glasses had passed, and that Alcaren appeared as green as the glass in the portholes when he finally pulled himself out of the seat he had taken.

  “No worse than a small storm.” He swallowed and headed out the passageway.

  Secca followed, gingerly. Her head still ached, and most of her muscles hurt, either from sorcery or from her body’s dealing with the ship’s motions afterward. She was especially careful to hold on to the ladder, and then the poop deck railing, as she trailed Alcaren to the poop deck.

  Although the waves had diminished so that Silberwelle only occasionally drove through one tall enough for water and spray to cascade over the bow, the entire ship glistened with a thin coat of salt water. The sails had been reefed in so that the Ranuan ship was carrying but a fraction of the sail as before the spellsong.

  Denyst eased from the helm platform to the railing at the starboard side, where Secca held to the damp but varnished wood firmly. Alcaren had his face to the wind, and the greenish color of his face had begun to fade. He did not turn to face Denyst as the captain began to speak.

  “Never seen spouts like that. Didn’t look like many of the Sea-Priest ships survived.”

  “If we sang the spell right,” Secca said, wiping spray from her forehead with her one free hand, “none of them did. What about our ships?”

  “Storms and winds scattered us as well, Lady Sorceress. Only seen a few.” Denyst gestured to her left. “Schaumenflucht managed to stay close, and the Liedmeer.”

  Under the gray clouds, a good dek aft, another Ranuan ship kept station on the Silberwelle. Secca thought she saw a third set of sails, on and off as the deck of the Silberwelle carried her above and below the crests of the more distant waves.

  The captain looked at the sorceress. “Had thought that your glass might tell us more.”

  “By tomorrow,” Secca promised.

  “She can only do so much sorcery at once,” Alcaren added, without turning his head.

  “Is everyone here…on the Silberwelle?” Secca almost hated to ask.

  “The second had to catch one of your players afore he went overboard, but she got him, and everyone else here is fine. Be glad tomorrow, to see how things are on the other ships. Need a calmer sea for the flags.” Denyst offered a wry smile. “Best you get some hardtack and some rest.”

  “In a moment,” Secca replied. “The air feels good, even with the spray.”

  “That it does.” A brusque nod, and the captain crossed the deck to the helm platform. “A few points to port.”

  Secca looked to her consort. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Much.” He presented a forced grin. “When this is done, can we return to your holdings and leave our feet on solid ground?”

  “Solid ground?” Secca laughed. “I would hope so. If the Sturinnese had not left their solid ground, I’d still be there.”

  “I wouldn’t have met you, then.”

  “One good happening.” She smiled, trying not to think about what came after dealing with Sturinn—if there was an “after.”

  “There are no other Sturinnese ships here in the Western Sea, and you worry yet.”

  “There is a fleet in the Bitter Sea, and there are sorcerers in Neserea,” Secca pointed out.

  “You cannot fret over the battles you cannot yet fight.”

  “I should not,” she replied, “but I do.”

  “As do we all,” he replied ironically. “As do we all.”

  For a long time, as the light in the west dimmed, they stood side by side at the railing, ignoring the infrequent fine spray that drifted over them.

  83

  By a glass after sunrise the next morning, while not calm, the sea state had returned to on
e similar to that of a day earlier, before the spellsong, with heavy but regular swells. The sky remained overcast with hazy and indistinct clouds.

  Secca stood aft on the windward side of the Silberwelle, trying to count the number of Ranuan ships without being too obvious, to see how many were actually close.

  Denyst crossed the deck and stood beside her. “You called a storm. Few like that I’ve ever seen.”

  “That was the hope.”

  “We haven’t seen any Sea-Pigs.”

  “The glass shows no Sturinnese ships, except for four in the harbor at Stura, and a few trading vessels scattered throughout the Ostisles and the isles of Sturinn.” Secca looked at the wiry and weathered captain.

  “And our other vessels?”

  “Why don’t you come down and look?” Secca said quietly. “I’ll show you.”

  “Fear what I will see in your glass. The Schaumenflucht lost some spars, and so did the Liedmeer. The Ozeanstern cracked a hatch cover, and took on water, but they got it repaired and pumped out. None of the other captains have seen the Wellereiterin. Is that what your glass will tell us?”

  Secca nodded slowly. She’d already tried to recall who had been on the Wellereiterin, but she hadn’t checked with Wilten and Delcetta yet, and hadn’t planned to, not until she informed Denyst. As Secca remembered, Quebar’s company had been assigned there. Although the young lancer officer had been verbally playful at Loiseau, especially with his cousin Vyren, throughout the battles and travels Quebar had been dutiful, quiet, and effective. He was also one of the few officers from Mencha itself, and all in Loiseau would miss him. “You should see what we see.”

  “That be not good news.”

  Secca did not answer, but walked forward to the ladder and climbed down, still careful to keep one hand on something solid as she did, although the height of the waves had continued to decrease, and the Silberwelle had settled into an almost-regular motion.

  Once below in the captain’s quarters, Secca checked the tuning of the lutar, while Alcaren unwrapped the scrying mirror and laid it on the table. Then Secca slipped on the copper-tipped gloves and, without explaining more, sang the spell.

  “Show us clear for all to see

  where the Wellereiterin might be…”

  The glass blanked, silvered over, and then displayed a stretch of open and empty ocean.

  “Afraid of that,” murmured Denyst.

  “We’ve tried several different spells,” Secca explained. “The glass either comes up blank or shows empty ocean. We thought you should see for yourself. Alcaren and I haven’t told anyone else yet.”

  Denyst nodded slowly, reflectively. “Losing one vessel to more than twoscore of the Sea-Pigs. No captain can fault that. Still hate to lose a single hand.”

  “I’m sorry,” Secca said, lowering the lutar. “I’d hoped that by using the storm spell early enough…”

  “The harmonies do not always give us what we wish, no matter how well we plan. Saving grace is that they don’t do much better for the Sea-Priests, either.” Denyst shook her head. “I’ll be missing Sacayla. Good ship mistress she was, and a better friend.”

  “I’m sorry,” Secca said again, knowing she was repeating herself, but with little else to say.

  “Did what you had to, sorceress, and more of us’ll live through it than without you. Hurts, though. Appreciate your showing me. Better that way.”

  Secca had hoped so, but she still wasn’t sure.

  Denyst turned. “Best see about gathering everyone back into formation.”

  Silently, Secca and Alcaren followed the captain out of the cabin, along the passageway, and then up to the poop deck.

  From there, to the west, Secca could see breaks in the clouds, and shafts of sunlight striking the water, turning it from dark blue almost to azure.

  “Where are we?” she asked Denyst.

  The captain turned. “Best reckoning is that we’re a good hundred deks southwest of the southernmost of the Ostisles,” replied Denyst. “We’ll be shifting course more to the northwest. With this wind, be four-five days to reach the southern fringes, and another two days to get off Stura. Last two days…who knows. Say the wind in the channels is uncertain, shifts a lot.”

  “Thank you,” Secca replied. “If you don’t mind, I need to tell Wilten and Delcetta about the Wellereiterin.”

  “Appreciate your letting me know first.” The captain turned toward the helm. “Flags! Need to send some course changes.”

  “She and Sacayla grew up together,” Alcaren said quietly, from where he stood at the railing, just behind Secca’s shoulder.

  “I did the best I could,” Secca said, turning toward him. “No matter what I try, people die.”

  “Fewer people than if you did not,” he replied.

  “They are just as dead.”

  Alcaren nodded, slowly, in agreement, then took her left hand, the one not holding the railing, and squeezed it gently.

  84

  Esaria, Neserea

  The Maitre stands in the small study off the far larger pillared chamber that had once served as the audience hall for the Lord High Counselor of Neserea, and, before that, as the throne room for the Prophets of Music. The adjoining study where the Maitre ponders what he must do had been the province of a junior counselor. The Maitre stands beside the desk table with a scroll in his hand.

  He studies the scroll, then rereads the one paragraph half-aloud to himself.

  With the aid of the sorcerers from the force that came from Dumar and joined us, we have destroyed more than three thousand of the Liedfuhr’s lancers and armsmen. Less than fifyscore remain, and they have scattered into the Great Western Forest and the Westfels to crawl back to Mansuur…

  The signature is that of Marshal jerLeng.

  The Maitre smiles, but only for a moment, before rolling the scroll and tucking it into his tunic. Then he turns and leaves the small study, crossing the audience chamber that stands empty except for the armsmen in Sturinnese white and turning down a corridor. In time, he comes to another chamber, one designed and built by the last Prophet of Music specifically for drum sorcery, although a scrying pool had later been added in one corner.

  Beside that scrying pool waits jerClayne. The younger Sturinnese moistens his lips as the Maitre strides into the chamber, past another set of armsmen serving as guards, and closes the door behind him.

  “Maitre,” offers jerClayne, bowing deferentially, but not excessively. His eyes are dark-ringed, and his face is pale.

  “Have you found anything more?” The Maitre gestures toward the pool.

  “No, ser. There are no signs of the home defense fleet.”

  “None?” The Maitre’s eyebrows rise. “No signs of anything?”

  “There was a storm, it appears, a very large storm.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Yesterday morning, the seas were almost calm. Today, the waves breaking on the reefs south of the Ostisles—”

  “You used the reflecting pool to look at reefs?” A tone of incredulity tinges the Maitre’s voice.

  “You asked me to discover what happened, Maitre. The pool showed nothing at all or open ocean. I tried a glass, but it was the same. The sorceress still holds wards against us, except they are not the wards we know. I could not view her at all, nor those close around her. I had two others try as well.” The younger sorcerer shrugs tiredly. “So I was forced to see if I could find other signs. They all pointed to a large storm. The skies were mostly clear just before the home defense fleet was to attack. I could not follow that, because we were attacking Esaria here. By late yesterday, there was a huge storm breaking up. Storms, as we know, do not appear from nowhere. I can only say what I have seen, and that is that the Shadow Sorceress created a storm mighty enough to sink the entire fleet.”

  “And her ships were untouched, no doubt?”

  “No, Maitre. One of the Ranuan ships is missing, and two others have heavy damage to sails and spars.”


  “She would lay waste to what has taken generations to build, and she does it thoughtlessly and out of malice!” The Maitre’s voice rises. “She has no plan. She has no thought. She travels on a whim! And the bitch Matriarch provides ships.” He glares at the younger man for a long moment. “Destruction for destruction, but ours will not be such a waste. Fetch the players.”

  JerClayne bows and turns, slipping through a side door, and returning almost immediately, followed by a half-score each of players and drummers.

  Both sorcerers wait as the players and drummers arrange themselves.

  “The sending spell,” the Maitre says. “On my sign.” He clears his throat, then raises his left hand and drops it.

  The accompaniment begins, and the Maitre’s baritone is firm and clear, rising above both players and the insistent but muted drumming.

  “Bring to Aerlya and Annyal the death of fire

  the lash of dissonances and certain death’s desire…”

  By the time he finishes the short spellsong, his face is red, and his forehead soaked in sweat. He takes several deep breaths, then uses a white cloth to blot his face and forehead. After another moment, he turns. “Check the glass, jerClayne. Let us see.”

  “Yes, Maitre.” The younger sorcerer turns to the players. “The second seeking song.” When he receives a nod from the first player, he signals, then turns and faces the reflecting pool, and sings.

  “In clear view, show us low and high

  where Annyal and Aerlya now lie…”

  The scrying pool obediently displays two blackened figures sprawled before a hearth that could have been in any cottage.

  “Good.” The Maitre nods. “Good.”

  Squinting as though he has trouble seeing, jerClayne sings a release couplet, and the image fades.

  The Maitre does not speak, but turns and walks toward the doorway.