“We shouldn’t need you, Elfens, but we’d rather be prepared.”
“As would we, lady.”
“Looks as though he’d just as soon nock that arrow and send it whistling through someone as spit,” noted Denyst, before turning her head and calling an order to the woman at the helm. “Another point to starboard!”
“Coming starboard.”
Secca just watched the pier while the ship mistress began to issue commands, and sails were reefed in, and crew members scampered through the rigging as the vessel eased toward the long stone pier. She could tell Lundholn was an old town, a gray ancient whose stone walls and streets had had all color bleached from them by endless generations of brutal winters and winds off the Bitter Sea. Even the few shutters that she could see on the warehouses behind the pier were gray and weathered, as were the heavy timbers that sheathed the stone pier.
The blue pennant at the end of the pier was held almost horizonal by the stiff wind out of the northwest, and almost directly below it stood a man and a woman, each wearing a black-and-silver uniform, with silver bars on the collars of their uniform jackets. Their eyes remained on the Silberwelle as Denyst called out commands, and the mooring lines were thrown to a pair of men in faded brown jackets and trousers. Neither officer on the pier moved as the Silberwelle was winched into position at the second berth from the seaward end of the pier.
Secca stepped toward the railing to watch, and to get a better view of the two officers who waited. “What do you think?” she asked Alcaren.
“They’re waiting for us.”
“Double up…make her snug!” ordered Denyst.
The hull creaked as the harbor waves lifted the ship and pushed her against the pier and the hempen bumpers. Still, there was no one on the long pier, save the two hands who had taken the mooring lines and made them fast to the bollards and the two officers in silver and black.
Delcetta appeared on the poop deck and halted before Secca. “If you would not mind, Lady Sorceress, I would first meet with those on the pier.”
“Let her,” murmured Alcaren.
Secca nodded. “Tell them I would be happy to talk with them.”
“That I will.” Delcetta bowed and turned.
From the forward section of the poop deck, Elfens glanced toward Secca.
“If you would stand ready for a bit yet,” Secca called to the chief archer, “until we have a company disembarked and on the pier.”
“We will stand ready so long as you need us,” returned the long-faced archer. An incongruous smile appeared, then vanished.
Secca watched as the blonde overcaptain of the SouthWomen walked down the gangway, followed by two lancers, and neared the two Norweians. The conversation was brief, and then all five turned and walked back up the gangway. Delcetta and the two Norweian officers climbed the ladder to the poop deck and walked toward Secca.
Both officers halted a good two yards from Secca and bowed deeply.
The woman spoke first. “Lady Sorceress. I am Captain Salchaar. This is Undercaptain Eztaar. We have been sent to serve as your guides and escorts to Morgen and to the border with Defalk. The Council is more than happy to grant you passage and any supplies you may need. If you do not have the golds at hand, we will take draughts that you can repay once your campaign against the Sea-Priests is complete. The Council felt that if we led you, there would be no misunderstandings, and all would understand that you are a welcome guest in Nordwei.”
“We thank the Council, and we thank both of you for your service and duty,” replied Secca. “We may have to wait a day or so for our mounts to recover some strength.”
“We had thought so, and we have arranged quarters throughout Lundholn.” Salchaar added quickly, “Always by company and in secure locales.”
“You and your players and officers and a company can have the larger inn—the Snow Gull,” added the undercaptain. “We have two smaller inns as well and an older barracks—it is clean and snug, if spare. We had guessed at ten companies.”
“We will need to see to the unloading,” Secca said. “We still have six other ships to see to. We have but seven companies and a company’s worth of players and archers.”
The Norweian captain frowned slightly.
“We lost two ships and all aboard in the battle with the Sea-Priests,” Secca explained.
“We did not know…we left Wei before…”
“There are no Sturinnese vessels left in the Bitter Sea,” Alcaren added, “or in any other ocean around Liedwahr.”
“Yet you need to travel…?”
“The Maitre has scores of companies of lancers riding through Neserea to Defalk. This morning they were but two days’ ride from Elioch. They are destroying every town and hamlet they ride through,” Secca explained. “So we must unload and prepare.”
“We will wait until you are ready, Lady Sorceress,” replied Captain Salchaar. “Then we will show you what we can offer.”
“You and the Council are most kind,” Secca replied, “and we appreciate that friendship and kindness. And we will remember it.”
“We have few lancers, Lady Sorceress, and we appreciate your efforts against the Sturinnese.” Captain Salchaar offered a slight head bow. “We would not delay your off-loading, and we will await you at the foot of the pier.”
“Thank you.” Secca returned the bow.
As the two Norweian officers climbed down the ladder to the main deck, the cool wind gusting around them, Secca turned and walked over to Denyst. She bowed to the ship mistress. “I cannot give you thanks enough for all that you have done, and for your grace and warmth in surrendering your own quarters to us for such a long time.”
The wiry captain smiled. “Lady Secca, was my pleasure, and my duty. If the Sea-Pigs win, we’d never sail again.”
“We haven’t won yet.”
“That may be, but the seas will be free for years to come, and I’d not be wagering against you in your campaign against the Maitre.”
Secca wondered if the Ranuan ship mistress didn’t have more confidence than she did. “I trust in the harmonies that you will win those wagers.”
“I will. You have a way with the harmonies, Lady Secca. That you do.” Denyst glanced toward the main deck, where several crew members had opened the hatch and were rigging a crane and hoist.
Secca’s eyes followed the captain’s. “You have much to do. We’ll leave you to that, and gather our people and gear.” She tried not to think about the several days before the mounts would be ready to ride—or the more than eight days necessary even to reach Nordfels.
“We should be able to unload all you need within a glass. I’ve signaled the Schaumenflucht to tie up behind us. We can mostly unload by twos. Wouldn’t want to use the inshore positions on the pier with our draft.”
Secca smiled. “In all matters such as those, we defer to you.” She bowed again before she turned and headed forward to the ladder.
Alcaren had already gone below to the captain’s cabin, and when Secca rejoined him, he had already stacked all the gear that they had packed earlier and placed it on the table. He looked up from the lumand case he had just set down. “I thought I’d get all this ready.”
“Thank you. Denyst says she will have us off-loaded in a glass or so.”
“If she says so, then she will.” Alcaren paused. “I just talked to Richina. She is ready.” He tilted his head slightly, as if he were not quite certain of the next words. “She’s still so frail.”
“She shouldn’t have to do any sorcery for close to two weeks, if not longer,” Secca said. “That should help.”
Alcaren nodded.
“We’ll have to alternate singing and holding the ward spells,” Secca said. “We can’t have you looking like that, either, not when I’ll need you to sing with me against the Maitre. Perhaps I can hold the wards for a few days on the journey.”
“Let us see,” Alcaren replied.
Secca laughed. “I think that’s as close to a d
isagreement as you’ll offer.”
Alcaren’s first reply was a sheepish smile. “I should be able to hold them until Richina is better, and she and I can alternate. You have to be rested.”
“Let us see,” answered Secca, using Alcaren’s own words in return.
He shook his head, ruefully, then stepped forward and embraced her.
Secca returned the embrace and clung tightly to him for a time, just hanging on to the moment, knowing all too well that, under the best of circumstances, death and devastation lay along the road before them.
107
In the late afternoon, Secca stood under the overhanging eaves of the Snow Gull’s side porch, looking down from the rise on the now-empty harbor of Lundholn. In the shadows cast by the headlands to the west and north, the water near the shore looked almost a shimmering black. The wind had subsided to a light breeze, so that only gentle wavelets lapped on the shingled beach and against the stone buttresses of the long pier. Less than a glass before, the last Ranuan ship had reprovisioned from the stores that had been mustered by the Council of Wei, and all were, Secca hoped, on an uneventful return voyage to Encora.
She had noted a pair of passengers being escorted to the Ozeanstern, the last ship to leave the harbor of Lundholn, just before the big trader cast off, and absently wondered who would take passage to Ranuak in such unsettled times. Then, they really aren’t that unsettled on the oceans, now…but who would know that? She shook her head. She had more than enough with which to concern herself without worrying about two passengers.
She glanced sideways at Alcaren. “It’s been two days, and Delcetta tells me that the mounts still are not ready, even to be walked more than a few deks.” Her lips tightened. “The glass shows that the Maitre is nearing Defalk, and all we can do is wait. There are not even a double handful of mounts to purchase here.”
Alcaren cleared his throat. “I did purchase some ponies. I thought that if they could carry provisions…”
Secca laughed, ruefully. “That will help.”
“But not enough.” He paused. “Do you know where Jolyn is?”
“She is in a hold, Dubaria, and she seems safe for now, although we cannot scry her directly.” Secca frowned. “You think we should warn her?”
“She probably knows that the Maitre approaches. And she may try something. He is not thinking about her, but he will be if she does.”
“Send her a warning to strike from afar, and only at the lancers and animals well away from the Maitre and his Sea-Priests.” Secca nodded. “We should—I should do that now, before other sorcery is called for. I should have thought of that sooner, but with the mounts and the maps and the draughts for supplies, and the study of the…those spells…” She pushed back a lock of unruly red hair that was getting far too long. “We should have her warn the lords around there to abandon their keeps. The Maitre will pull them down around them.”
“You think so?” Alcaren laughed at himself. “Of course he will. If he has done that in Neserea, why would he not do worse in Defalk?”
Secca took a last look at the shadowed harbor. “I should have done this earlier.” Why does it always seem that way? Because you are still not that experienced in planning battles and travels and sorcery and all that goes with it? She wasn’t, Secca reflected, but the problem was simple. There wasn’t anyone else who was, except Alcaren and Palian. Alcaren still didn’t know enough about Defalk to see what she was missing or had overlooked, and Palian had her hands full managing the players and keeping Delvor in line. “We’d better check the scrying glass first, then I’ll write a message.”
The two walked along the narrow corridor to the large room in the southeast corner of the sprawling stone-walled inn that sat on the bluff overlooking the town proper. Secca nodded to Mureyn as she and Alcaren passed the lancer acting as guard, and closed the door behind them.
Alcaren unwrapped the scrying mirror from its leathers while Secca moved the pitcher and basin off the small wash table. Then he set the mirror in place. Secca tuned the lutar quickly, then sang the seeking spell, asking to see the dwelling in which Jolyn was staying.
When the image of a redstone-walled keep appeared, they both studied the glass.
“Dubaria—that’s Tiersen’s keep. Good. I’m glad she’s still there. She should be, but she could have ridden somewhere else.” At Alcaren’s puzzled look, she added, “Tiersen’s consort is Lysara. She saved my life and almost lost hers doing it. I would want them warned above all others. Then Kinor.”
She sang the release spell and recased the lutar. Then she went to the narrow wardrobe and opened it. A smile crossed her lips as she took out a fresh sheet of paper, one of the twoscore sheets she had managed to find in the chandler’s the day after they had landed—along with a half-score of fresh parchment sheets. For a time, at least, she wouldn’t have to be writing notes and spell drafts on the sides and corners of papers that already had every span covered with writing.
“I’m going to draft the letter to Jolyn. I’d like to read it to you when I’m finished. You can tell me if there’s something I should add.” She paused, then swallowed, as she lifted out the leather folder and the manila envelope within—Anna’s “Armageddon” file—and handed it to Alcaren. “While I’m writing, if you would read these, and see which ones might be useful against the Maitre.”
His eyes widened as he took the aged parchment and recognized what she was handing him. “Me? How would I…?”
“You’ll know, my love.”
A wry smile crossed his face. “You would share these with me?”
“Who else?” asked Secca. “You will be the one singing with me against the Maitre.”
“Me? Why not Richina?” Alcaren rewrapped the scrying mirror and set it in the corner beside the narrow wardrobe.
“Because the spellsongs are stronger—at least, Anna said so—with a man’s voice and a woman’s voice. And because I do not wish Richina to be singing such until she is older.” Secca pulled a stool over to the wash table and seated herself.
Alcaren took the folder and sat down on the foot of the bed that was barely of double width, narrower even than the bunk in Denyst’s cabin aboard the Silberwelle.
Even from the first words of the first sheet, Secca could see he was frowning. She forced her thoughts back to the message she should have written earlier. She had sent the warding spell in time, and Jolyn was still fine. You should have done it earlier. Secca winced, but she kept searching for words.
After almost a glass, as the sun was dropping behind the conifer-covered hills to the west of the Snow Gull, Secca finally scratched out the last words she disliked and replaced them with another phrase—her third attempt. Then she cleared her throat.
Alcaren looked up.
“Will you listen?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Dear Jolyn—
“We are in Wei, and will be traveling to Defalk from the north as soon as our mounts recover from sea travel. That will be within two days, I hope. We will take the road from Nordfels and hope to reach you before the Maitre of Sturinn can accomplish too much devastation in Defalk.
“The Maitre is nearing Defalk, with at least a handful of strong sorcerers and a spell that can kill unprotected lords or sorceresses from a great distance. We can tell that you have used the warding spell that will protect you from such sorcery and also limit his abilities to see you in a glass. Because the warding spell takes most of your strength just to hold, if you attempt any sorcery against the Maitre, you must direct it at his lancers, those that are distant from the Maitre.
“He has been pulling down liedburgs and keeps around lords in Neserea and will do so in Defalk. Warn Tiersen and Kinor and others, as you can, that the best way to survive is to abandon keeps and fortifications, and to attack scouts and other smaller forces where there are no sorcerers.
“We will be there as soon as we can. Remind them that we can help them rebuild structures, but that we cannot bring them b
ack to life….”
Alcaren laughed softly as she read those words.
“What do you think?” Secca asked.
“Are there any other spells you should send?” he asked.
“I would not send the terrible ones. Her players are half the number of ours and do not know the fourth, fifth, and sixth building spells.”
“That is not the only reason why you will not send them,” he said quietly.
“She cannot use them,” Secca protested.
“That well may be true,” Alcaren agreed, his gray-blue eyes meeting her amber ones.
“I fear to have many see or hear them,” she admitted.
“Do you think to keep them hidden?”
“If I can…if I can.”
“It will be even harder if we succeed,” Alcaren replied.
Secca understood all that he meant, for if they succeeded, sorcerers around Erde would search for the means they had used. If they failed, no one would look further.
They shared sad and knowing smiles.
108
Northwest of Elioch, Neserea
The column of men in white stretches more than two deks westward, back toward yet another hamlet whose demise is marked by trails of smoke winding skyward, but lost soon against the high gray overcast. The lancers ride in precise formation, as always.
A lancer undercaptain in Sturinnese white rides up to the Maitre, slowing his mount, then bowing in the saddle. “Maitre…”
“What is it?” The Maitre reins up, as do all those who follow.
“The riders we reported—they were Defalkans, bearing a scroll from Lord Robero. They wished to deliver it personally.” The undercaptain flashes a hard smile.
“I see you persuaded them otherwise.”
“Yes, Maitre.” The undercaptain extends the scroll, not to the Maitre, but to jerClayne, who rides to the left of the leader of Sturinn.
The younger Sea-Priest breaks the seal and checks the document without reading it before handing it to the Maitre. In turn, the Maitre takes a quick look at the seal on the bottom, then impatiently reads through the document.
Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 44
