The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Fehern gestured for the others to sit, then sat a moment later, leaning toward Secca. “Once the wine is poured, I will offer a welcome and a toast.”

  “You’re most kind and gracious,” replied the sorceress.

  The wine poured by a serving-woman in brown was a pale amber, and once the server had reached the base of the long table, Fehern stood and lifted his goblet. “For seasons we have struggled against the Sturinnese, but now we will pre­vail, for we have the assistance of Defalk and one of its greatest sorceresses.” He lifted his goblet. “To the Lady Secca and her forces.”

  “To the Lady Secca and her forces.”

  Almost immediately a handful of servers appeared with platters of food, all beginning at the head of the table. The meat seemed to be slabs of mutton rolled around a filling of some sort and covered with a white sauce, and the po­tatoes had been diced, mixed with cheese and spices, and baked again.

  Secea sipped her wine sparingly, not difficult under the circumstances, since it was a vintage that had once been lush and was shading toward lush vinegar. Like Dumar, she reflected.

  “Did you have any . . . difficulty . . . in reaching En­varyl?” asked the overcaptain farther down the table to Al­caren’s left.

  “There was a company of Sturinnese,” Alcaren replied. “That was three days ago. They tried to ambush us, but Lady Secca discovered them in enough time that we dispatched them.” He took a small sip of wine and broke off another chunk of the flat crackerlike dark bread.

  “That is too bad,” mused Fehern. “The survivors will re­port your arrival, and the Sea-Priests may attack sooner.”

  “There were no survivors,” Secca said easily, “but that would not matter. The Sturinnese have sorcerers every­where, and they doubtless know we are here.”

  “No survivors?” inquired Halyt, raising a single eyebrow.

  “None,” affirmed Alcaren.

  “With all the companies of lancers they have, the Sea-Prests will scarce miss one,” added Wilten.

  “That is unhappily all too true, Overcaptain,” replied Feh­ern. “Yet it is still an accomplishment to destroy an entire company of Sturinnese without casualties.”

  Secca laughed ruefully. “Lord Fehern, you give us great credit more than we deserve. While we have managed this latest engagement without losing lancers, our efforts in reaching you have not been without casualties. We have already lost several companies.

  “Several companies?” asked Halyt. “I presume, but I saw no wounded.”

  “Against the Sturinnese,” Alcaren replied, “there are few wounded. There are the dead . . . and the survivors.”

  Halyt nodded slowly. “That, too, has been our experience. Yet, even against their sorcery and drums . . .”

  “We can talk of tactics later,” Fehern said smoothly, “when we meet to plan how we will attack the Sturinnese. For now, let us speak of other matters. And shortly, we will hear the overcaptain play.

  Secca smiled politely. “He plays excellently, as you will hear.”

  “I am sure we will, Lady Sorceress.” Fehern laughed warmly. “We will need to meet soon, however.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” suggested Secca. “At my villa at the second glass after dawn? The sooner, the better, do you not think?”

  “Ah . . . ” Fehern frowned.

  “I will have a scrying glass set there so that you may see for yourself.” Secca smiled warmly. “And so Halyt can see as well.”

  “Excellent.” Fehern motioned to the serving-woman with the wine, then turned back to Secca. “You must tell me, and Halyt, how you found Ranuak, for none of us has ever trav­eled there. So much is rumored, yet so little is known.”

  “I had heard much as well, and I had never visited there, or Elahwa, either,” Secca replied. “I was surprised to find Ranuak a poorer land than I had heard. All work, and every morgen of good land is tilled, yet without the fishing and the trade, I think that life in Ranuak would be hard indeed. They abhor sorcery, although the Matriarch was most polite, and we left as soon as we could.” Secca laughed lightly. “That I am a sorceress may have added to her willingness to help us leave and come to Dumar.”

  “The Matriarch helped you?”

  “She provided the vessels that carried us to Stygia,” Secca admitted.

  “And you did not encounter the white-hulled warships?”

  “We saw not one,” Secca replied.

  Halyt looked at Alcaren. “Not one?”

  “They had blockaded Encora for a time, but there were none on the seas when we left,” Alcaren affirmed.

  “But where . . .?” mused Fehern

  “To Neserea, we fear,” Secca said. “To support the re­bellion there.”

  The quickest of glances passed between Halyt and Fehern before the Lord High Counselor spoke again. “What of the city of Encora itself. Is it the marvel all say?”

  “It has walls on the hills that surround it, and a deep and narrow channel that protects its harbor . . .“ As Secca talked, she was all too conscious of how dangerously she wove truth and omission together into a misleading image. Yet there was much she did not wish Fehern to learn--- not yet.

  25

  East of Eseria, Neserea

  Beyond the faded and heavy wall hangings that fail to keep the winter chill at bay, Clayre stands over the bare wood of the table in the small sitting room of Lord Nysl’s keep. Her fingers touch the strings of the lutar, and she be­gins the spell.

  “For all who seek me through spell and song

  let them see me sifting here as if here long.

  Let them see me use the spell and glass

  as days and moments come to pass.

  Yet a dtfferent view will unfold,

  for each time one seeks me to behold..."

  Clayre smiles as she finishes the spell. After a moment, she lowers the lutar and eases the instrument into the oiled leather case. Then she dons the leather riding jacket, picks up the saddlebags, and walks to the door of the chamber. The ancient oak door creaks on its iron straps as she opens it, and creaks again as she closes it behind her.

  At the bottom of the narrow rear staircase, there is a small hall, whose stone walls are unadorned. There, Diltyr waits, beside the door that leads to the rear bailey and the stables. In one hand is a leather case within which is his violino. The other hand is empty. “The players are mounted and ready, Lady Clayre.”

  A white-haired man in a faded purple tunic trimmed with silver stands beside the chief player.. He bows as he speaks. “For all of our sakes, I wish you well, Lady Sorceress.”

  “I thank you, Lord Nysl, both for your good wishes, and for your hospitality. I wish you well in the weeks ahead.”

  “Thank you, lady.” Nysi bows again.

  “Thank you.” Clayre acknowledges the bow with a grace­ful nod. Then she turns as Diltyr opens the bailey door and steps out into the dark gray of an overcast morning before dawn.

  Side by side, she and Diltyr walk across the courtyard toward the stables, outside of which players and lancers are already forming up.

  “He is relieved that we are departing,” says Diltyr in a low voice.

  Clayre nods brusquely. “That is to be expected.”

  “Will not Belmar see us in his glass? Even though we leave before dawn?"

  “He will, but what he sees will not be what is.” Clayre chuckles.

  “With each season, sorcery becomes more devious,” mur­murs Diltyr.

  “And more dangerous. We must make certain that the danger falls upon Belmar, and not upon us.”

  “That requires lighting a lamp with a short splinter, lady.”

  “Better than having no light, I think,” replies the dark-haired sorceress with a laugh.

  26

  Once back in the guest villa after a too-long and not ­too-enlightening dinner with Fehern, Secca opened the door onto the wide balcony and stepped outside into the night air. Alcaren hurried out after her, his hand on the hilt of his sabre, but the
balcony was empty, and the loudest sounds were laughs from the barracks, muted by the brick walls, and the whispering of a wind that was too warm for winter and too chill for spring.

  Secca stood at the balcony railing for several moments, looking skyward, but the intermittent clouds obscured any view of either moon. “So many words . . . so little said, and everyone listening for something.

  “That is often true,” Alcaren said.

  “Was it that way in Ranuak?”

  “Even less obvious, I fear, my lady. I am not good at such listening, and others would hear what I did not”

  “I feel the same way, even here.” Secca turned from the railing, and Alcaren followed.

  After they had stepped back into the sitting room, Secca slid the door bolt into place, not that it would more than delay a determined intruder. “Did you notice who wasn’t there?"

  “The disguised Sea-Priest we’ve seen in the glass with Fehern---unless he was disguised in another fashion. Cap­tain Kuttyr was near the bottom of the table, well away from any of us.”

  “That’s both a precaution and a slight.” Secca laughed. “Or a disciplinary action because he said too much to us.”

  “Or all three.”

  “What do you think of Fehern?"

  “I don’t trust him,” replied Alcaren, “but he has little enough reason to trust us, either.

  Secca yawned. ‘Dinners such as tonight are more tiring than riding.”

  “That could be because you rode this morning,” he pointed out

  “What do we do when we meet with him tomorrow? Be­sides develop a battle plan that doesn’t put us at his mercy?”

  “That could be obvious,” mused Secca’s consort. “We have to find a way to make it less so.” “Do we have to do that now?" asked Alcaren, glancing toward the bedchamber.

  After a moment, and a shared flush, they both laughed.

  27

  Wei, Nordwei

  Ashtaar is the last one to enter the council chamber, and all eyes focus on the silver-haired Council Leader as she takes her place in the middle of the long dark table. She does not speak immediately. Instead, in the muted light cast by the oil lamps in the sconces on the walls, she looks from one end of the table to the other. The room is silent, except for the breathing of those present, and the occasional rustle of garments.

  Her voice is cold and firm when she speaks. “I have heard it said that the future of Liedwahr is being decided as we meet, on the high plains of Dumar somewhere near En­varyl.” A tight crooked smile appears, showing teeth shock­ingly white and even for one so old as Ashtaar. “I would like to say there might be a grain of truth in such a saying, but I doubt that. Our seers have followed the shadow singer of Defalk. Like the one before her, she is no fool. She did not land at Narial, but picked a small fishing port to the west. She had almost reached Envaryl before the Sturinnese realized her plans and gathered their forces. The sorceress has joined with Lord High Counselor Fehern and is poised to sweep the Sturinnese from Dumar.” Ashtaar glances around the Council room. “That is as it appears. Especially in war, early appearances can be deceiving.”

  “How might they be deceiving, Leader Ashtaar?” asks the balding and young-faced man in gold-trimmed brown. His voice carries both apparent earnestness and an almost-hidden sarcasm. “The Sorceress Protector defeated the Stu­rinnese in Ebra and destroyed the Sea-Priest fleet off Encora.”

  The momentary glitter hardens Ashtaar’s eyes, but her smile is polite. “High Trader Fuhiar . . . you may recall the Sea-Priest fleet in the Ostisles? It is now northwest of Land­ende, clearly on its way to Esaria as soon as the ice melts, and perhaps sooner, if the Sea-Priests choose to employ sor­cery. But it could turn south at any time. The Liedfuhr of Mansuür has been forced to split his lancers, for even he cannot afford to leave Wharsus undefended, much as he dislikes a greater Sturinnese presence in Liedwahr and much as he would prefer to stand by his sister. By the time the snows melt and allow his lancers in Unduval to cross the Mittpass, they will face a ride of two weeks or more to reach Esaria, and he will be able to send but a third of the force he had earlier assembled.”

  Ashtaar’s gaze rakes across those at the table. She swal­lows silently to forestall a cough.

  “How does this affect the Sorceress Protector in Dumar?" asks a burly man in dark blue.

  “The Sturinnese will not fight her unless they can be as­sured of an easy victory. They will march and retreat, evade and skirmish, and attempt to force her into hasty action be­cause they know that she knows her sister sorceress cannot prevail in Neserea without her aid.”

  “That will only delay her, from what we have seen,” sug­gests Marshal Zeltaar.

  “No.” The hard and low negative comes from the hooded Lady of the Shadows. “She will grow impatient, and she will call forth greater sorcery, and the Sea-Priests will be prepared and respond with even greater sorcery---and we will see a disaster greater than the creation of the Zauber­infeuer. It could easily be greater than the Spell-Fire Wars or, the harmonies forbid, the Pelaran Devastation.”

  “Those are strong words, lady,” suggests Fuhlar.

  “There is another possibility,” Ashtaar says slowly, wait­ing until all eyes are back on her before continuing. “The shadow singer may indeed be most effective in her sorceries, and they may be greater than the Sea-Priests anticipate. She has outmatched them so far. According to our seers and calculations, the spells she used to destroy the Sea-Priest fleet should have recoiled and killed any sorceress or sor­cerer. They did not.”

  “They prostrated her,” points out Fuhlar.

  “It might be most interesting to discover how you found that out, Fuhlar,” Ashtaar says slowly, “but that will wait for another time. Would you care to make the conclusion you so carefully interrupted?”

  There are smothered smiles around the table.

  Fuhlar clears his throat. “You wish us to conclude that the shadowsinger and her compatriots may be powerful enough to destroy the Sturinnese totally in Liedwahr and then unite both Dumar and Neserea under Lord Robero’s rule.”

  “If they succeed against the Sturinnese,” Ashtaar says de­liberately, “that is highly likely. Lord Robero will not wish a repetition of what has just occurred. Ebra is well on the way to becoming a part of Defalk, and Dumar has shown itself weak and unable to resist invaders. Were you Lord Robero, what would you do?”

  “He may do otherwise,” suggests a figure in maroon.

  “When has he done the unpredictable in the past half-score of years?” The scorn in Ashtaar’s voice is almost ven­omous. “Still. . . there is something else to consider, don’t you think, Marshal Zeltaar?”

  The black-clad marshal offers a nod. “The Sturinnese have planned all of this very carefully. They may well be playing a far deeper dissonance.”

  Fuhlar raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

  “What if . . .” The marshal pauses. “What if the battles in Dumar leave Fehern and his kin dead, and the sorceresses contend with the Sea-Priests in Neserea. . . and lose?”

  Ashtaar nods.

  After a silence, the Lady of the Shadows clears her throat. “I will be the one to state the obvious. There would be no one left in—Ebra, Dumar, Neserea, or Defalk capable of stop­ping them.”

  “Either alternative is intolerable,” Fuhlar says. “It will serve us ill to have Liedwahr dominated by either Defalk or Sturinn.”

  “Can you suggest another?” asks Ashtaar quietly. “If you can, we would all like to hear it.”

  There are glances exchanged, and frowns around the ta­ble, but none speaks.

  28

  Secca and Alcaren stood in the entry foyer of the villa, a foyer empty of decorations and wall decorations, as in­deed was the entire villa, looking through the narrow win­dows that flanked the closed double doors. Outside, the day was gray, threatening both rain and wind. A squad of the South Women lancers was drawn up as an honor guard for Fehern, with Captain Peragirn mounted in fro
nt of them. Secca’s overcaptains and chief players were already gath­ered in the upper-level sitting room.

  “Do you think he will come?" asked Alcaren.

  “How can he not?’ replied Secca. “He needs us more than we need him. Also, it would show fear or distrust for him not to come.” She laughed. “He will keep us waiting, and he will have an excuse for that. He will be most apologetic, pleading the press of something.”