Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  “We had hoped you would find it so,” Andra replied. “The potatoes are fixed the way my aunt always has. The beef is an old favorite of my lord’s.”

  There was a momentary silence.

  “As you may have heard, Lady Secca,” Cassily began slowly, “my father and I, for all that I loved him, did not see Defalk or Nordfels with the same eyes. My older brother believed as did my father, but after the accident in Heinene, my father was left to choose between me and my sister Asaro. Since Asaro had long since consorted to Lord Kinor, my sire had few choices, and we talked but seldom.”

  “I had heard something along those lines,” Secca replied cautiously, even though she had not heard about the death of Cassily’s older brother. Knowing what she had known about the late Lord Ebraak, she had few doubts about the nature of the “accident.”

  “We wish you to know that you are always welcome here,” Cassily continued, “and that we will support you as we can.”

  “I cannot tell you how much that means.”

  “I will say more,” Cassily went on, almost hurriedly. “While we can do nothing in this respect, my lady and I would say that Defalk would be far better off…” He paused. “Let us just say that we admire the heritage of the first years of the lady Anna’s efforts in Defalk.” Cassily offered a smile, one somehow both defiant and yet supportive. “In some ways, it was a great tragedy that she and Lord Jecks…” The lord left his sentence unfinished.

  Secca managed not to swallow or choke on the wine she had just sipped. “I also admired Lady Anna.” She offered her own smile. “I may not be the best judge, though, for she was not only my mentor, but my mother from the time I was nine years. She wanted to do what was best for Defalk, as do I.”

  “That is most clear, Lady Secca,” Andra said. “Anything we can do to aid you in defeating the Maitre, that we will support. And anything you may need after such, that too will we support.”

  Cassily nodded. “My lady speaks as I feel and will act.”

  “Thank you.” Secca paused. “For now, we could use some provender for travel and a few extra mounts, could you spare such.”

  “You shall have them,” Cassily declared.

  Richina’s eyes had widened at the turn in the conversation, but the younger sorceress had taken refuge behind the rose-tinted goblet.

  “You are most kind,” Alcaren said smoothly. “This is my first encounter with any of the Thirty-three, and I must confess that you have overwhelmed me with your kindnesses to my lady and your understanding.”

  “It is said that you are a lord of Ranuak,” Andra offered.

  Alcaren laughed. “That is a title of courtesy. Most properly, I was an overcaptain of lancers in the service of the Matriarch. Neither she nor I wished it known that I was also her cousin, if for very differing reasons.” His voice turned wry. “So I was sent as part of the relief force to lift the siege of Elahwa, and there my lady Secca arrived in time to save us all from annihilation. In an attempt to repay that which could never be repaid, we supported her in the efforts which expelled the Sea-Priests from Ebra, and later from Ranuak and Dumar—”

  “Along the way,” Secca interrupted firmly, “he saved my life and nearly lost his own in the effort. That was when we learned that we belonged together. I prevailed upon the Matriarch to consort us.”

  “Is that why you have three companies of SouthWomen?” asked Cassily.

  Secca gestured down the table to Delcetta. “Overcaptain Delcetta might better explain that.”

  Delcetta smiled, half-proudly, half-sadly. “The SouthWomen’s Council offered its services and lancers to the Sorceress Protector even before she consorted with Lord Alcaren. Five companies we brought. We lost two and Lady Secca one in the sea battles against the Sturinnese, but all my lancers and I will follow her and Alcaren until there are no Sea-Priests left in Liedwahr.”

  “Thank you.” Cassily nodded slowly. “I have heard that even Lord Selber sent lancers to serve under you in Ebra, and that Lord Hadrenn of Ebra put all his forces under your command.”

  “That is so,” Secca acknowledged.

  “I do not recall any lords doing so for any lord or lady since Lady Anna,” observed Cassily.

  “There has not been the need,” Secca pointed out.

  “Nor do I see any lords or ladies placing their forces under any but you during this time of need,” Cassily continued.

  “I believe Lord Tiersen and Lord Kinor are working with Lady Jolyn,” Secca said.

  “They are wise to do so, and while they will work with Lady Jolyn, I would wager that only to you would they cede command.”

  “I cannot say, Lord Cassily,” Secca replied, “but your support is most appreciated. How much I cannot tell you.”

  Cassily laughed, softly, but warmly. “Enough of this. You know where we stand. Now let us talk of what we do not know. Perhaps Lord Alcaren can tell us of Ranuak and what it was like to grow up there.”

  Alcaren smiled broadly. “Are you most certain you wish to hear the ramblings of a man whose only success has been in consorting?”

  A loud snort came from somewhere down the table, from Delcetta, Secca thought.

  “There are some who think otherwise,” Cassily said. “Come, let us hear…”

  Secca’s consort cleared his throat. “In Ranuak, as you have heard, the women are the traders, and my mother was and is most successful at such, and my younger sister promises to be so as well. Alas…there are certain virtues a trader must have, such as a love of the sea, and the ability to remain hale and healthy on sea voyages through all manner of weather…”

  Secca smiled, knowing where Alcaren’s tale was headed. She tried not to yawn, but could not help but think of the triple-width bed in the opulent guest quarters above, and the sleep she would dearly like to have after the trek through the Nordbergs—even if the section they had traversed had been little more than hills compared to the peaks to the east and west. Yet for all her tiredness, she felt almost chill as she considered Lord Cassily’s declarations. Had Robero so alienated the Thirty-three? Or had Jolyn so altered Cassily’s perceptions about Defalk?

  Would Secca ever really know? Did it matter against the certainty that the Maitre was creating an ever-increasing swath of destruction across Neserea and into Defalk? Yet, neither she nor her lancers could have traveled faster than they had.

  A faint and sad smile crossed her lips as she took another tiny sip of the red wine. Bed and sleep would have to wait, and she hoped she could remain alert.

  118

  For dek after dek, Secca and her forces had ridden south along the great gray stone road across the seemingly endless valley, where faint green shoots had begun to appear at the base of the winter-browned prairie grass. The ground was so level that the only depressions were the small ponds created years before when sorcery had removed the rock beneath the soil to provide the paving stones and gravel for the road itself. The wind remained warm and light, although Secca could see clouds building up over the Mittfels to the west.

  After the struggle to cross the Nordbergs, Secca felt almost as though they were flying southward. Yet so wide were the glasslands that they seemed to make little progress. Still, for Secca, it was a relief that they could ride abreast, with Alcaren to her left and Richina to her right, and that they had escaped the muddy roads of the north.

  “They say that there are snakes in the grass,” Richina said. “Large ones.”

  “It is too early in the year for the snakes, and for that I am glad.” Secca hid a smile as she continued. “The old Rider of Heinene told Lady Anna that some were five yards long and could swallow a gazelle.”

  Alcaren raised his eyebrows, before adding, “That is nothing compared to the serpents of the Southern Ocean. Traders say that they have been known to swallow longboats whole. Only the largest serpents, that is.”

  Richina frowned slightly as she turned in the saddle toward him.

  “Others say that they must snap the boats in two wi
th their tails before they can swallow them.” Alcaren grinned. “What are grass snakes compared to those?”

  “Gazelles move far more swiftly than longboats,” Secca countered, stifling a laugh. “I would rather face a sea serpent than a grass snake.”

  “Especially here,” riposted Alcaren.

  Then, both Secca and Alcaren burst into laughter.

  After a moment, so did Richina, flushing as she did so.

  After the laughter died away, Richina, still flushed, peered southward. “How much farther, do you think?”

  “We should see the hilltop where the Rider has his Kuyurt before long,” Secca promised Richina.

  Secca was curious about what she would find at the Kuyurt, a hilltop domicile, not really a keep, of Lord Vyasal, the Rider of Heinene. Vyasal’s father had been an early and strong supporter of Anna, and Vyasal had continued his vocal support after his sire’s death. Especially after having seen the smoldering ruins of Denguic in the glass that morning, Secca could only hope that the Maitre would move slowly and that Vyasal would support her as well as had Cassily, at least in terms of supplies. She would need all the support she could muster in the aftermath of the Maitre’s destruction of towns and keeps.

  119

  Fussen, Defalk

  The wind blows out of the north, across the granite-studded ridgeline and toward the town of Fussen in the shallow valley below. To the southwest, above the town, looms the keep. Not a single wisp of smoke rises from the silent town, for all that it is chilly, even in the sunlight. Not a body or a mount is visible in the town. Nor is there any sign of life from the keep. The faint high haze that weakens the sun lends an additional sense of chill to the morning.

  The players and drummers have formed in an almost-perfect arc on the ridge, facing the town below. Behind them are twenty-five companies of lancers, mounted and ready to attack or defend, should either be necessary. Another sixty-five companies are stationed along the stone-paved highway from Denguic. Standing before the players and drummers are a half-score of Sea-Priest sorcerers, headed by the Maitre, and Marshal jerLeng. Their white uniforms are spotless and shimmer under the cold morning sun.

  “They have abandoned the town and keep, Maitre,” jerClayne reports.

  “Are there men with arms nearby?” questions the Maitre. “Those of Defalk or Fussen itself?”

  “The glass shows small groups of armed men. Some are lancers, and some wear livery of a lord. They have avoided our sweeps. They are not near the town, but many would be within several deks, we would judge.”

  “Good. They will not escape the way the last ones did.” The Maitre’s voice is cold. “We may not get all of them, but enough will suffer.”

  JerClayne looks to Marshal jerLeng, but jerLeng neither acknowledges the glance nor speaks.

  The Maitre steps forward and gestures to the players and drummers. “The firebolt song! On my signal.”

  “We stand ready, Maitre,” comes back the response.

  The Maitre raises his left hand, then drops it. The drumming rises from a rhythmic backdrop into a pulsing roar, then softens to fall beneath the Maitre’s baritone as he begins the spellsong.

  “Blast with fire, blast with flame,

  all men in Fussen not of Sturinn’s name,

  sear with whips of sound, and fire’s lash,

  turning all against us into ash…”

  Lines of flame sear through the high overcast, narrow needles of color seemingly jabbing at the ground randomly. As the lines of fire subside, the Maitre sits down heavily on the camp stool that awaits him.

  He watches, his head moving from side to side, until no more flame needles flash down from above the overcast. Only then does he turn and look to jerClayne and the two younger Sea-Priests. “That will leave their women for suitable use. You will handle the spells to turn the keep and town into rubble.”

  “Yes, Maitre.” JerClayne bows, then steps forward. “The hammer song.”

  “The hammer song. We stand ready,” replies the head player, the only one with gold rings on the sleeves of his white tunic.

  Squaring his shoulders, jerClayne lifts his left hand, then drops it. He waits, then joins the players and drums with his voice and words.

  “Smash all brick and break all stone,

  so no building, wall, or hall shall stand alone.

  Then with flame and fire’s heat…”

  As the words and accompaniment fade, the ground, and even the hard granite underlying the ridge shivers underfoot to the rhythm of blows, as if delivered by an unseen hammer that flattens everything in the town, and all structures of the keep to the west against the anvil of the very earth. Dust rises dozens of yards into the sky, creating veils that shroud the land and the rubble beneath those shrouds.

  Within moments of the last words of the spellsong lifting into the air, jerClayne pitches forward, his fall barely stopped by the taller of the young sorcerers.

  “Make sure he gets food and rest,” the Maitre says. “We have much more to do. Much more.” He turns and walks toward his tent.

  To the southwest reddish dust swirls around the crushed and crumbled stone that had been the keep of Fussen. In the valley below the keep, where the town had been, tongues of fire roar into the sky, creating a wall of flame and smoke that obscures even the outlines of the shattered hilltop keep.

  To the south and the east, lines of thin black smoke rise everywhere, out of woodlots and from behind hills high and low.

  120

  The hilltop Kuyurt of the Rider of Heinene was not a keep, but a series of stone-walled and white-plastered rooms built in an oval and joined by an enclosed corridor set on the inside of the rooms. Separate from the Kuyurt were the guest stables, slightly downhill and to the west. At the south end of the oval was a walled garden. At the north end were a great room and the banquet hall where Vyasal had feted them the night before and where Secca and Alcaren sat at one end of the long table, eating a breakfast of fried flatbread, soft white cheese, and honey-spiced baked apple slices.

  Vyasal had eaten earlier, but sat at the table with Secca, Alcaren, Richina, and the two chief players. His dark brown eyes, intent and deep above his trimmed black beard, fixed upon Secca. “You still do not wish me and my riders to come with you?”

  Secca took another sip of the warm cider, thinking, before answering. “We face sorcery. For now, I would not wish any riders because the Maitre might destroy them before they could ride against his lancers. Against such sorcery, we cannot protect a large force. If we prevail in sorcery, then…then we will need riders.” She paused. “If you could spare a few riders, and one or two that we could send back to summon you when the time comes…?”

  Vyasal nodded. “That…that we can do, and my daughter Valya, she will ride with you.” The Rider of Heinene laughed. “Always, she has said that she would do as the men do. Now, I can send her with a true battle sorceress.”

  Secca nodded, hoping she had not shown her concern inadvertently, for she had met Valya the evening before, and the girl—while tall, muscular, and wiry like her father—was a good three years shy of her score.

  “She is the eldest, and since I have but daughters, best she learn from a woman who commands.”

  While the words were a statement, Secca understood the appeal as well. She smiled. “I will see that she is with me or Richina at all times.”

  Vyasal inclined his head ever so slightly. “Valya has made ready, in hopes that she would accompany you.”

  “She will.” Secca forced herself to take another deep swallow of the warm cider as she finished a second section of the hot flatbread, onto which she had piled apple slices.

  “How long before the lancers are ready, do you think?” She glanced at Alcaren, who looked somewhat more rested than the night before, although there were still dark circles under his gray-blue eyes.

  “A glass or so.”

  “Before you go,” insisted Vyasal, “you must see our horses.” His dark eyes sparkled.
“I must insist.”

  “I am not a rider,” Secca protested, even as she wondered if she could see the horses quickly enough so that they would not be delayed. It was still a good two days’ ride to Dubaria, and a day and a half beyond that to the ruins of Westfort and Denguic. Her lips tightened at the thought of the destruction the Sturinnese had already created and the concern about what else might be devastated before she could reach the Sturinnese. She tried not to think about her fears that what she knew might not be enough—or that she might have to use even more terrible spells than those she had already employed.

  Vyasal laughed. “Once, perhaps, that was true. I saw you ride into the Kuyurt. You are a rider. So you must see our horses.”

  Secca rose. “Best we do so now, then, for I fear to delay much will offer the Maitre more opportunities for destruction.”

  Vyasal stood as well, saying in a low voice, “Would that others had such concerns.” He added more loudly, “I will meet you by the guest stables.”

  “We will be there as soon as we get our gear.” Secca turned to Palian. “You will have a bit more time to gather the players.”

  “I fear some will need it.” Palian’s voice was dry. “We will be ready when you return.”

  Delvor merely nodded.

  Secca, Alcaren, and Richina walked from the banquet hall.

  As they made their way along the stone-walled inside corridor, Richina spoke. “Lady Secca, might I accompany you to see the horses?”

  “Of course. So long as you are packed and ready to ride from there.”

  “I am already packed.”

  Alcaren said nothing until he had closed the door to the guest chamber, a room nearly as large as the one they had occupied in Nordfels, but whose white-plastered walls and arched ceiling were draped with dun silks, giving it the impression of an enormous tent. “Those words referred to Lord Robero.”

  “They did indeed, unhappily.” Secca set the lutar on the foot of the low bed, which was a circular affair in the middle of the room with no headboard or footboard, but with dun silk quilts and more than a half-score of pillows. “If what Jolyn wrote us earlier is correct, Defalk is splintering once more, into the factions of the old traditions and the new ways.”