“How—?”
“She will see it in her glass,” Ashtaar says tartly. “We need to decide. Do we give the sorceress the means to stop this insanity on her lands before it gets farther out of hand, or do we refuse her passage and have both Defalk and Sturinn at our throats?”
“I do not believe—” begins Fuhlar.
“You’re an ass, Fuhlar, if you think it stands any other way,” snaps Ashtaar.
“While I would not use such terms,” adds the lady in black, “I do believe that the Council Leader has stated this situation accurately.”
“You who oppose all sorcery would allow a sorceress to cross Nordwei?” asks Adgan.
“That is why,” replies the Lady of the Shadows. “These two will fight a terrible sorcerous battle. Nothing we can do will stop that. Therefore, the sooner this battle is fought, and the farther from Nordwei, the less we will suffer.”
“You have said little, marshal,” said Fuhlar, almost winningly.
“What else is there to say?” asks the officer in her black uniform. “We could not stop the sorceress if we wished, and we would lose all the lancers we could send against her. She has pledged not to harm our people and to pay for what she takes. She is desperate to reach Defalk before it is totally destroyed. Would you stand in her way?”
“Ah…no.” Fuhlar frowns, then adds, “but could we not refuse to grant her permission, but not actually oppose her. That way, if the Sturinnese do prevail…”
“We could claim we were invaded?” suggests Marshal Zeltaar.
“While that sounds most reasonable,” Ashtaar replies, “it is stupid and foolish. The Sturinnese hate us already, not because of our allies, but because we are ocean traders and rivals. Should they defeat the sorceress, they will destroy us whether we support her or not. We gain nothing by refusing permission, and should the sorceress win, we well may lose far more.”
Fuhlar had begun to open his mouth, but he does not finish whatever he might have said and closes it abruptly.
“Exactly,” the marshal concludes. “We might also be best served by sending messengers to Lundholn and Morgen to tell all those there, and to suggest that the merchants and chandlers offer a fair price. They should not give away goods, but at this time, it is not a good idea to charge in excess.”
“But…” protests Fuhlar, “we should not even profit from our generosity?”
“You will profit, Fuhlar,” Ashtaar says smoothly. “We will not have to fight on our lands, even if the worst occurs, until much later. If the sorceress wins, we will control all the trade in the Western Sea, and that should be more than enough profit for any of your trading cronies.”
Fuhlar looks down at the table.
“There is one more matter—the heirs of Dumar and Neserea. Marshal Zeltaar had agreed to provide them transport, but we now have a quicker alternative that will send them farther from the Maitre, as well as upon the ocean while the conflict proceeds.”
“Why…?”
“Again, it cannot hurt,” Ashtaar says, “especially if the Shadow Sorceress does not know, and there should be no reason for her to learn.”
“You could turn them over to her,” suggests Fuhlar.
“I dislike having all coins in a single strongbox, and so should you.”
The trader nods reluctantly.
“I gather we are agreed,” Ashtaar says. “I will have messengers sent to Lundholn and Morgen.”
Not a single figure seated around the table objects.
100
Secca had her green leather riding jacket fastened as she stood near the bow of the Silberwelle, beside Alcaren. The swells had increased once more, and the water of the Northern Ocean was a dark blue that seemed almost black, even in the midday sunlight. The spray from the bow was fine and chill, almost like mist, and she had to blot it off her face frequently—and gently. To the south, she could make out a fine dark line on the horizon—the northeastern coast of Mansuur, east of the Circle of Fire.
“I know we travel faster than if we rode,” she said to her consort, “yet I feel we do nothing. Before long we will have to deal with the Sturinnese fleet, and that will take time…” Her words faded into the chill breeze.
“Need we deal with them?” asked Alcaren. “If they remain to the south, close to Esaria, then we could sail directly to Lundholn.”
Secca’s brows wrinkled in thought. “That would leave them behind us, and once we disembarked, there would be little protection for the ships.”
“If they were far enough south—”
“Then we could disembark and Denyst could leave,” Secca finished his sentence. “The Sturinnese would not dare to chase her ships and leave the Maitre unsupported.” Yet who truly knows what they would do?
“That might be.”
“And it might not.” Secca shook her head. “When we go below, we will use the glass and see where the ships are—if we can.” She shivered, and reached up to refasten her riding jacket against the chill. “It’s colder now.”
“It is, and the water will get even colder now that we are close to the Bitter Sea,” Alcaren said, his eyes still looking eastward at the empty sea before them. “Does the cold air help your face?”
“It feels better in the chill air. I don’t know as it helps much. I’ll still have scars, I fear,” Secca replied.
“You may not. Even the lines where Fehern threw the acid-water are beginning to fade.”
The sorceress shook her head. “I still cannot say I understand his acts.”
“You understand, my lady.” Alcaren’s tone is wry.
“Oh…I know why he did what he did—just as I know why the Sturinnese act as they do. But I cannot say that I understand within my heart why they take such pleasure in forcing others to do as they wish, or in wanting to make sure women have little power and less say in how matters are run. Some of it makes little sense. Lord Robero would have nothing, were it not for the sorceresses. He would be dead and have been lying in an unmarked grave for nearly thirty years. Yet, he listens to those who counsel him against sorceresses?”
“We all believe what we wish to believe,” Alcaren said.
“I know, and that also is frightening. How much do I delude myself into believing what I do is good, because that is what I wish to believe?”
“At least you ask such questions.” Alcaren laughs. “The Sea-Priests follow their beliefs without questioning, and without looking at the world beyond.”
“Is that our weakness?” mused Secca. “Those who try to do what is right…are we always at a disadvantage because of our doubts, while those who never question their beliefs can justify anything to further what they believe?”
“That is possible,” Alcaren replied. “But is it not better to question than to accept blindly?”
“I wonder. Because I question, and must suppress my own doubts in order to act, then do I act more harshly to overcome both my own doubts and my adversaries?”
“You ask hard questions, my lady. But in the end, you must act.”
“I know.” Secca sighed. “In the end, refusing to decide is every bit as much a decision and an action as acting.”
“Sometimes, refusing to act,” he pointed out, “creates more death and hardship than acting, however harsh those actions may seem. Would not many more have died and suffered had you not acted to save Elahwa? Would not many more have suffered and died had you not destroyed the Sturinnese in Dumar?”
Secca nodded slowly. “Yet…”
Alcaren laughed again. “Yet never can we prove the dangers and deaths that might have been. Never can we prove how awful might have been the alternative, not without allowing it to occur.”
“And that we cannot do,” Secca said slowly, reflecting. Anna had been right there, too, as in so many things. To make decisions for others meant having to take the responsibility—and the blame—even when matters would have been far, far worse without the action.
“No. We cannot.”
Secca
looked eastward, wondering how long it would be before they neared the Sturinnese ships—and what else might be required of her and Alcaren.
101
Even after the Silberwelle entered the Bitter Sea, the swells remained heavy, but regular and long. The water stayed dark, and the sky turned to a hazy overcast, leaving the poop deck where Alcaren and Secca stood damp and chill. Keeping one hand on the taffrail, Secca glanced aft. A dek or so behind the Silberwelle followed the Schaumenflucht, and then farther aft was the Liedmeer.
Denyst checked the heading and studied the helmswoman briefly before turning back to the couple. “This heading, the way the wind is swinging, we could make better time if we didn’t have to turn south to deal with the Sturinnese. That course would bring us right into the teeth of the wind before long.”
“Let us see if they will come to us,” Secca suggested.
Alcaren nodded slowly.
“You think they will?” asked Denyst.
“I’ve been thinking about it. We’ve looked in the glass, and their ships are close to Esaria,” Secca said. “I don’t know, but we could save several days if we did not have to go all the way to Esaria, could we not?”
“That we could…but I would not wish to be caught unloading at Lundholn,” Denyst said dryly. “The wind there makes leaving the harbor long and tricky. Or so it is said.”
“I don’t think that will happen,” Secca said. “If the Maitre is trying to destroy Neserea and then Defalk, and we look to be sailing past Esaria, what would you do if you were the fleet commander? Let us sail blithely by?”
Denyst laughed.
“What if they do?” questioned Alcaren.
“Then…we’ll have to come back later and destroy the fleet. Right now, it has done as much damage as it can to much of Liedwahr. That is not true of the Maitre.”
“For that reason, you think that they will sail north to attack us?” asked Denyst.
“The Sea-Priests are angry,” Secca pointed out. “If we seem to be avoiding them, they would have to believe that we either fear them or wish to avoid them. If they think we fear them, then they may be bolder to attack. If they think we wish to avoid them to make haste to Defalk, will the Maitre let those ships sail a useless picket and do nothing?”
“When you tell it that way,” Denyst said, “it seems likely that they will come to us.”
“I’d wager golds on it.”
“I don’t think I’d wager against that.” Denyst laughed.
“We’ll have to keep a close watch on their ships in the glass,” Alcaren added, swaying on his feet as the Silberwelle pitched forward, then up and into a heavier swell. Some of the spray from the bow drifted far enough aft to mist down across the three by the helm platform.
“We can do that,” Secca said.
“They’d be trying a stern chase, as well, and that will give you more time to use your sorcery when it suits you and not them.” Denyst inclined her head. “You set on this?”
Secca nodded.
“Then, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to check the charts for a bit. We could angle more northeast and pick up more speed…as I recall.” With a nod, the mistress of the Silberwelle slipped away.
Secca grasped the taffrail firmly as the ship nosed down between swells, more steeply than before, waiting for another misting of spray.
“This war has changed,” Alcaren mused.
“Oh?”
“When it began, you and all of Liedwahr needed to react to the Maitre. Now, you are forcing him to react to you.”
“Only in this one matter,” Secca pointed out.
“More than just this. By burning towns and hamlets in Esaria, he is acting as much in rage as in calculation.”
“Perhaps…” Secca conceded. “Perhaps.” What if he is not? What if he is the one forcing us to react? Yet…? There was so much yet that she did not know, could not know, and they were racing toward Lundholn, without having seen, yet, any signal that the traders of Wei would allow them to land uncontested. You hope you don’t have to make that choice, either.
Secca gripped the taffrail even more firmly, and not just because of the motion of the ship.
102
Along the River Saria, Neserea
A warmish wind wafts over the two Sea-Priests who stand at the hillcrest, looking down at the hamlet below.
In the late afternoon, a cordon of mounted lancers surrounds the score of cottages and hovels. All have their swords unsheathed. A squad of lancers approaches each dwelling. The process is quick—and efficient. Any man or male child is dragged out and cut down, his body left on the bloodstained dirt. The women’s hands are bound, and each is tied into a long coffle that has already begun the march up the hill to the Sturinnese camp.
“They will serve us, one way or another,” the Maitre observes.
As the last of the women is tied into the coffle, Sturinnese squad leaders apply torches to the hovels, the cottages, and the barns and outbuildings.
The Maitre nods and turns, walking back across the hillcrest to his tent. The wind that ruffles the panels of the Maitre’s tent, as he enters it, also brings with it the odor of burning wood…and the sweet-acrid smell of other materials burning as well. The Maitre seats himself on a camp stool, ignoring the sounds and smells from the hamlet to the west, as he considers the maps spread on the camp table.
A time later, jerClayne enters the tent and clears his throat.
After a moment, the Maitre looks up from the maps. “Yes?”
“Fleet Marshal jerStolk has sent a plate requesting your instructions,” offers jerClayne. Mud spatters dot his boots and white riding trousers.
“He had instructions,” snaps the Maitre. “What problem has he with them? Must I spell out everything to everyone?”
“The ships carrying the Shadow Sorceress are on a course to bypass Esaria, and appear to be heading to Wei,” replies the younger Sea-Priest, his voice carefully neutral. “He will have to sail north to engage them.” After a moment, he adds, “We have used the glass, and that seems to be so. The Ranuan vessels are on a northeasterly heading.”
“Why would she bypass Esaria?” the Maitre muses. “Has she given up on retaking Neserea…?”
“Perhaps she knows that we will leave her no supplies or provisions,” suggests jeClayne.
“She could take another route, even if it were slower…” The Maitre stops. “The bitch…the devious bitch. Speed! I should have thought of that. Ships are faster. The Council of Wei is in league with her. That’s why their fleet was in the Ostisles. So she can sail to Wei and take the river roads, and then the metaled roads of Defalk…”
The hollow-cheeked jerClayne sways slightly on his feet, then stifles a yawn, waiting. Finally, he speaks. “Ser…instructions?”
“Send a plate back telling him to attack, but using the group tactics. He must at least delay her. He should know that. And tell him to destroy her ships!”
“Yes, ser.” The tall and ever-thinner Sea-Priest coughs, then asks. “And what will we do, then?”
“Keep as we are. Time is still on our side. While we must reduce Neserea to rubble, we will still be in Defalk in two weeks. Even if she avoids the fleet, she cannot be out of Wei by then. She will gain some time, but little enough.” He shakes his head. “Make it clear to jerStolk that she must not escape him.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Why must I spell out everything in letters large enough for the least intelligent of schoolboys and acolytes?”
JerClayne says nothing.
“Well…go and have the plate made and sent—quickly.”
The younger Sea-Priest bows and departs.
The Maitre looks down at the maps, his expression between a glare and a frown.
103
Bright as the early-afternoon sun shone in the blue southern sky, little of its warmth reached Secca where she stood beside the helm platform, between Alcaren and Denyst. The heavier swells of the days previous had subsided into long a
nd low masses of water that rose and fell far less than a yard. The wind had dropped to little more than a light breeze, just enough to keep the sails of the Silberwelle taut.
“Might not be that long.” Alcaren gestured toward the south. “But the lookouts haven’t spotted sails yet.”
“They will be there,” replied Secca. “The glass showed sails filled with wind.”
“Sorcery,” added Denyst. “Wind’s so light we’re barely more than making headway.”
“They can’t use sorcery for everything,” Secca said. You hope they can’t.
“They’ll do anything to stop you, sorceress,” suggested the ship mistress.
“I know.” Secca cleared her throat. “We need to warm up.” She glanced forward.
The players had begun to assemble below on the main deck, and a few discordant bowings and off-tune horn notes drifted aft.
Secca coughed, and began slowly. “Holly-lolly-lolly…”
Alcaren slipped away to the port side, where, more quietly, he began to warm up, his vocalises clearly better than in weeks previous.
The sorceress was midway through a second vocalise when the cry came from the yards above. “Sail ho! Starboard quarter.”
Secca finished the second vocalise and then a third before she turned and strained to see the vessels that the lookouts had reported and that Alcaren had earlier discovered in the scrying glass, but either her eyes were not sharp enough, or the Sturinnese ships were at the edge of vision and she was too short—or both.
“Sail to the south and to the west, still closing, Lady Sorceress. You were right.” The captain of the Silberwelle gave an off-center smile. “How many ships do they have?”
“The glass showed close to threescore, but there were no more than five in any one group and each group was deks from any other group.”
“And each group has at least one sorcerer, I would wager,” Alcaren added.
“Are they all to the south?” asked the captain. “The lookouts only see sail there.”
Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 42
