Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  At the sound of boots on gravel he turns back to watch Marshal jerLeng approach, followed by jerClayne.

  The lancer marshal bows, slightly, but deferentially, then straightens. “The lancers are drawn up to the east as you requested, Maitre, and we have stripped the city of coin and provisions. We stand ready to travel.”

  “Good. We will leave shortly. After we complete what must be done here.” The Maitre nods to the younger Sea-Priest.

  JerClayne also bows, slightly more deeply, before he reports. “The fleet has returned to the open water to the northwest, and the captains will do their best with the sorcerers they have, as the sorceress nears the Bitter Sea. They have your instructions.”

  “Excellent. Now, we will do our best.” The Maitre smiles grimly, and his eyes glitter with determination.

  “If I might ask?” inquires jerLeng. “What spell will you use?”

  “One that gathers the dust and flame of the heavens and turns them into fireballs that will fall on Esaria. There is always dust and flame. Why, it might even gather fire and dust from Sturinn. A touch of justice, do you not think?” The Maitre laughs, hauntingly, a sound that rises almost into cackling.

  JerLeng barely conceals a wince.

  “Maitre…might I ask,” stammers jerClayne, “what will this destruction do, besides create hatred and enmity?”

  “Why, it will deliver a message. It will tell the world that Stura’s might still lives, whether the isle of Stura does or not. And that message is necessary,” replies the Maitre. “Even though Stura is no more, much of what was Sturinn remains. By bringing down Liedwahr in shambles and destruction, then we give Sturinn the time to rebuild. No matter how mighty this sorceress, she is but one of a kind. She has also shown us what else is possible, and with our players and drummers, we can and will do far more. When we succeed here, then we can return to our isles and the Ostisles and rebuild, knowing that we will have time to do so. If we were to fail to bring down this Shadow Sorceress, then what has made Sturinn great would cease to be for all time. That must never be. Never!” He pauses, then asks, more quietly, “Is that not reason enough?”

  Both men stiffen from the fire in the Maitre’s eyes, and the iron in his words, as if they wished to step back, but dare not move.

  The Maitre turns and steps forward to a position before the players and the drummers. He makes one sharp gesture, and the players begin, followed a bar later by the drums. The Maitre’s voice joins them on the third bar.

  “Raise waters of the deep to their greatest height…”

  Before the end of the long stanza, a mournful groaning issues from deep within the earth, and a shudder runs through the land, and then a streaking ripple dances beneath the waters of the Bitter Sea, running northward and vanishing.

  For a time, nothing occurs.

  The Maitre, now pale-faced, watches the Bitter Sea, as do jerLeng and jerClayne, and the players and lancers assembled behind them.

  Shortly, a hummock of water appears on the horizon. Then, with a deep sucking sound, the waters of the harbor below the bluffs of the headland retreat seaward, leaving the few fishing craft stranded on the mud. Two deks seaward rises a wall of dark gray-blue water, which towers over the doomed port and capital as it rushes landward.

  The top of the great wave is almost level with the headland before it crashes across the city, flooding all but the highest hills, and flattening structures as though they had been made of fragile sticks and paper, and not of stone and brick.

  As the water begins to ooze back seaward, running in streams and torrents and rivulets, carrying debris, planking…and bodies, the Maitre turns and makes a second gesture.

  A single note issues from a violino, and the players retune.

  When they are silent once more, the Maitre raises his hand, and lets it fall, and the accompaniment for the second spell begins.

  “From heaven there beyond let fall the fireballs of might, fall in undying flame to turn to ash and dust this city in our sight…”

  When the spell is complete, the Maitre turns and walks slowly, almost shuffling to the stool set under a canopy, where he reseats himself and listens…and watches. His eyes have deep circles under them, circles that had not been there before the spellcasting.

  First, there is a distant booming, almost as if an echo of the drums, and then whistling, hissing, shrieking.

  Then the fireballs begin to fall from the sky upon the ruins of the city and upon those structures that had escaped the flood—including the buildings that had once comprised the palace of the Prophet of Music.

  “Fire and flood. That is a sufficient beginning.” The Maitre slowly rises from the stool and begins to walk toward his mount, even though the fireballs still bombard what had once been a city.

  92

  In the late afternoon, despite the burning of her face and continued throbbing in her head, Secca made her way topside and to the stern of the Silberwelle. Alcaren had preceded her, by less than quarter of a glass, but stood near the bow.

  Despite the full canvas, the wind was light, and the ship barely seemed to move through the dark blue waters of the Western Sea. For a time, Secca stood at the stern railing, staring southwest at the wide and dark column of clouds and smoke and ash that was still visible, for all that the Silberwelle was more than a hundred deks northeast of Stura.

  Stura had become a funeral pyre, and she had done it. One spell, sung by two, and Stura would not host life in generations. Secca had seen the poisoning and the damages wrought by the conflict of the Mynyans and the Matriarchs, devastation wrought ages past and still blighting the lands of Ranuak—and yet she had sung her own terrible spell.

  What else could you have done? What else that you could do would stop them? The question circled in her mind, and still she had no answers.

  At the shadow on the deck she glanced up.

  Palian slipped to the railing beside the sorceress. Her face was blotchy and red, and had blisters scattered across it, blisters covered with unguent, much in the way Secca had seen her own face that morning in the glass.

  “Lady Secca…” offered the chief player.

  “It was a terrible spell,” Secca said quickly. “I know.” Her hands clasped together, almost as if they had thoughts of their own. “I knew it was terrible, but I did not realize how terrible it could be.”

  The gray-haired chief player did not speak, just stood beside Secca.

  Secca continued to speak, if in a low voice barely audible to the woman next to her at the railing. “They are defeated, and they return. Their ships are destroyed, and they build more. Their armsmen and lancers are slaughtered, and they raise more and return in greater force. They chain their daughters and consorts, and few beyond Ranuak seem to think it that ill. They tear out the tongues of women who essay sorcery…” She shook her head. “My own ruler…he would seek peace with such?” Secca swallowed, realizing that she had never mentioned that to Palian, or anyone but Alcaren. She added quickly, “And yet…to stop them…the only way to stop them…and thousands upon thousands died. Many were chained women, or children, helpless babes.”

  “It was terrible, and it is indeed terrible that it needed to be sung,” Palian said, her voice firm. “What is more terrible is that few will see that it needed to be sung. They will claim that there must have been another way. Or that you could have threatened the Sea-Priests and forced them from Liedwahr. Some will say that you should have used the spell on some small isle to show its power.” The older woman laughed softly, mournfully. “The lady Anna showed the power of sorcery. As soon as she died, the Sea-Priests attacked. The lady Clayre died. She did not die because she was a weak sorceress.”

  Secca turned. “You do not think Belmar was stronger?”

  “Belmar had help from the Sea-Priests, it is true,” Palian admitted. “The lady Clayre did not understand that waiting benefits only the Sturinnese and their allies. Your consort said it well. Only you and the lady Anna have attacked as swiftly a
s you could, and only you two have prevailed.”

  “We have not prevailed yet,” Secca said.

  “You are prevailing, my lady sorceress. You will fail only if you lose the will to prevail. Do not let false sympathy betray you, or all the women of Erde will be lost.”

  “But thousands upon thousands died…”

  “Many more of those would have died in the wars that the Sturinnese would wage in the years to come. Many of those gloried in those wars and the spoils of such wars. Those who glory in war have little right to complain about how it is waged. We also have the right to live as we choose, do we not?”

  “Yet…” mused Secca, “yet Lady Anna changed the way of living in Defalk, and Dumar, and Neserea, and killed many who did not want those changes. And I am no better.” No better at all.

  Palian laughed, ironically. “You could do far worse. Is Defalk a better place for all now? How would it be were the Sea-Priests to rule?”

  “Is it always like this…having power?” asked Secca, knowing the answer, knowing no one, not even Palian, could absolve her of the guilt and pain.

  “No. It is worse to have power and to do nothing. It is worse to have power and use it only to protect one’s own lands and golds. It is worse to watch all fall around you, and to know that you might have changed it, but that you did nothing.”

  Secca winced.

  “There are many things worse than what you have done, Lady Secca. I would that I never see them.”

  After a long and deep slow breath that seemed to burn as much as the light wind did on her skin, Secca turned, and said softly. “Thank you.”

  “She taught me that,” Palian replied, “when I was your age. I have not forgotten.”

  Secca understood who had taught Palian. Secca also hoped she could hold to what the gray-haired chief player had said, because Palian had shared those thoughts not because the worst was over, but because it was yet to come.

  93

  Wei, Nordwei

  Ashtaar beckons for the seer to enter the private audience chamber, a chamber kept dim, despite the bright sunlight beyond the shutters and heavy hangings that shroud the window.

  Escadra’s demeanor is subdued, and she does not meet Ashtaar’s dark and piercing eyes, either in approaching the Council Leader or in seating herself across the table-desk from Ashtaar.

  “You have something to tell me?” asks Ashtaar.

  “Yes, Leader.” The seer pauses, then speaks quickly, as if she needs to say all the words at once so that she will not be interrupted. “Stura—there is little left of it. That is, the isle remains, but the northern section, where Inylt and the port of Stura were, it is covered with molten rock and ash, and it appears that few in the southern part escaped the ash and fumes.” Escadra swallows.

  “How did you discover such?” Ashtaar’s voice is mild, as if she were asking about rotation patterns for the seers.

  “You knew, Leader?” asks the Escadra.

  “There was a great disruption in the harmonies,” Ashtaar replies. “I did not know what caused it, but I was confident you would discover the cause. What created this disruption?”

  “The Shadow Sorceress—we think. It has been most difficult,” Escadra says slowly. “When we have tried to scry the Shadow Sorceress, we have seen but images of ourselves. So we have had to scry everything around her. The Ranuan ships are now headed eastward, we think toward Neserea, but they are too far at sea yet to tell.”

  Ashtaar frowns for a time.

  The heavyset Escadra shifts her weight slightly in the straight-backed wooden chair and waits.

  Abruptly, Ashtaar laughs. “She is using a ward that mirrors sorcery, or something like it.” She shakes her head. “Few are skilled and strong enough to do that. Especially after creating such destruction. Few indeed.” After a pause, she asks, “What else can you tell me?”

  “The isle of Trinn is greatly damaged by waves, and smoke and ash fall on most all of the inner isles of Sturinn.”

  “Was there any sorcery to oppose the sorceress? Any ships to attack hers?”

  “Only those which attacked near the Ostisles.”

  “Most strange. Most strange.” Ashtaar covers her mouth with the heavy green cloth and coughs, if but once. Then she takes a sip from the beaker. “Dreadful draught. Hope you never have to drink it, Escadra.”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  Ashtaar laughs once more, a sound almost like a cackle. “All you young people think that you will be forever strong, that perhaps your hair will turn, but you will be strong enough and your minds will never wander, nor your lungs wheeze. It is not so. You either die young and strong, or live till you are old and weak. All die. The Maitre may well discover that in the weeks ahead.”

  “The Maitre? Did he not—”

  “He could not have so perished. He would have used sorcery to protect Stura. Also, that would explain the most timely death of the Lord Belmar. Yes, it would. The Maitre is with the Sturinnese in Neserea, and he has been for some time.”

  “How—”

  “It is easy to see such in hindsight, but never has a Maitre left Sturinn before. Never has one gone elsewhere and hidden himself. Why would anyone think of that? Until now.” Ashtaar clears her throat yet again. “We had best hope that the shadowsinger returns swiftly.”

  “We?”

  “The Maitre is most wroth, I would judge. He had no love of Liedwahr before this. Do you think he does not know what she has done?”

  “We are not of Defalk.”

  “No. That means that he will ravage Neserea and Defalk, and then either Ranuak or Nordwei. That is, if the Shadow Sorceress does not stop him.” Ashtaar sighs. “Write me a statement of what you have discovered. Have the scribes make ten copies for the Council meeting.”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  Ashtaar waves the seer toward the door.

  Even before the seer has closed the door and departed, Ashtaar’s head is tilted, and her dark eyes focus elsewhere, as her fingers idly stroke the dark agate oval on her table-desk.

  94

  Secca awoke with a start. The space in the bunk beside her was empty…and cool. Perhaps Alcaren had gotten too hot, or the pitching of the Silberwelle had made him uncomfortable enough that he had gone topside for some fresh air. She stretched and closed her eyes.

  Even behind closed eyes, she could see once more the clouds of ash and the glowing of molten rock…and hear the screams and cries she had caused. What were you supposed to do? Let them chain every woman in Liedwahr and tear out the tongue of every one who might become a sorceress? Or fight the good fight, but only so far, so that someone else will have to fight it ten or thirty years from now?

  Closing her eyes hadn’t helped. Neither did staring at the overhead. She still kept debating and arguing with herself.

  Finally, she sat up and threw on the rest of her clothes, ignoring the pain as her tunic scraped her blistered and still-sore face. Her head throbbed more when she bent forward to pull on her boots. Then she made her way out of the cabin and up toward the bow. There, in the grayness before dawn, she found Alcaren, on the starboard side, facing into the occasional spray.

  To the east, low in the sky, she could see both moons, the white disc of Clearsong and the red point of light that was Darksong, seemingly less than a yard apart in the sky. She wondered if the near conjunction foreshadowed more turmoil—or merely reflected what had happened.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  “After you left, neither could I. I just kept thinking about Stura.”

  “You did what had to be done.”

  “Did I?” she asked. “Could I have done it another way?”

  “Yes,” Alcaren said. “You could have tried to land, and risked being killed. If you succeeded in landing, you would have had to kill almost every man on the isles, probably even some of the women, and you would have lost lancers and players. By then, the Sturinnese in Neserea would have gathered their lancers and their fleets and retur
ned, and then you would have been trapped, unless you created almost as great a series of sorceries. And after all that, in another ten years, or a score of years at most, the Sea-Priests would be back trying to take Liedwahr with even greater sorcery. That’s what they’ve been doing for generations.”

  “I keep telling myself things like that. It doesn’t help.”

  “No…it doesn’t. It never does. We find it hard to accept that sometimes death and destruction are the only solutions if we want to survive.”

  “I don’t know that this was the only solution,” Secca replied.

  “In a perfect world, it wasn’t,” Alcaren admitted. “But we don’t have a perfect world. Your Lord Robero is weak and will sell you out to keep his throne. The Matriarch will not take on the Ladies of the Shadows. Lord Fehern would kill his brother to rule as a Sturinnese puppet, and nothing short of their total destruction will keep the Sea-Priests out of Liedwahr. They believe that their way is the only way—”

  “And we believe ours is,” Secca said.

  “That’s true.” Alcaren paused. “But there is one big difference. You didn’t invade Sturinn. You didn’t try to conquer three lands that didn’t believe as you do.”

  “Not at first, but…” Secca shook her head. The words always ended the same, and Stura was gone.

  Alcaren reached out and squeezed her hand.

  “What happens next?” Secca asked softly.

  “We put our feet on solid ground, and I feel better,” Alcaren replied, dryly. “In another week or longer.”

  Secca laughed softly. “I’m sorry that I’ve put you through this. I know you never wanted to go to sea again.”

  “The harmonies have a fine sense of humor,” he replied.

  “I meant after the battles and the sorcery,” she said.

  “You keep being a sorceress.”

  “And what about you?”

  “You’ll keep teaching me how to be a sorcerer. I hope you will.”