“I am most certain you did not,” Palian replied warmly. “You have always been most solicitous of the lady Secca, and your devotion to her and your duty is well-known. Most well-known.”
Wilten smiled wryly, as if to note that he understood he was being offered a graceful way out “As is yours, chief player.”
Alcaren coughed, loudly.
All eyes but those of Secca turned to the broad-shouldered sorcerer.
“Ah . . . a chill. Please excuse me.”
Richina smothered a smile.
In the silence, Secca spoke. “Now . . .we need to move northward, against the remaining Sturinnese here in Dumar.”
“Lady Clayre?” asked Delvor, almost apologetically. “I . . . we cannot return her from the dead,” Secca answered, her voice heavy. If . . . if she had moved more quickly, could she have reached Neserea in time? She wanted to shake her head. The passes that led north and west had been blocked even before Secca had completed dealing with the Sturinnese in Ebra. “It may be that once we deal with the remaining Sea-Priests, it will be warm enough that we can venture through the trade pass and into Neserea. We can but stop this Belmar and make Nesacea safe for the Lady Counselor and heir.”
“The lancers are almost ready to ride,” offered Delcetta.
“And they would be far happier to spend tonight in a warmer and drier place?’ asked Secca with an inquiring smile.
“Indeed,” replied Delcetta.
“Then we should ride back the way we came, for that is warmer and drier than the route the Sturinnese took.” Secca looked to Wilten.
“Our lancers are also ready.”
“In a half-glass?” asked Secca.
“No more than a glass,” replied Wilten.
Secca nodded, and Alcaren stepped back to open the tent panel. Secca could feel with the light breeze entering the tent that the air remained chill.
Palian waited until the overcaptains and Delvor had left the tent. She inclined her head. “I trust my harsh words to Wilten did not offend you too greatly?"
Secca shook her head and smiled, sadly. “No. They were words that needed to be said, yet not ones that I could say. I thank you.”
The chief player smiled, almost wistfully. “You cannot say all that needs to be said. Nor can your consort nor your assistant.”
“That may be, but your words were welcome,” Secca replied.
“And wise,” added Alcaren.
“Wise?” Palian arched her eyebrows. "What we do must be done, but wise? Only if we succeed.”
“That is true of all ventures,” countered Alcaren. “Success renders the foolish wise, and failure makes the wise foolish.”
With a last smile, Palian nodded and slipped out into the cold and clear morning.
“While the lancers strike the tent,” Alcaren suggested, “you should ride up to the top of the ridge and see what lies to the south.”
“You know. You’ve seen it, or you wouldn’t be suggesting that,” Secca replied. “Just tell me.”
“My telling you is not the same as your seeing it,” he said, smiling.
“I defer to your wisdom.” Secca fastened her jacket more tightly and pulled on her riding gloves, then went to saddle the gray mare.
After she had struggled through saddling her mount and refusing aid from Gorkon, knowing she was being foolish, Secca fastened her saddlebags, scrying mirror, and lutar in place.
Then the gray mare carried Secca uphill from the campsite, through snow that would have been nearly knee high had she not been following the track broken by the scouts. Alcaren rode beside her, his breath white against the brilliant blue sky. Richina, wearing both her blue hat and scarf to bundle herself against the cold, followed, as did Palian.
At the crest of the hill, not all that far from where she had sung the storm spell the day before, Secca looked out to the south and east. Despite the warmth of the morning sunlight, everything beyond the hilltop was covered with white, covered deeply enough that not even grass or bushes showed through. Even the valley beyond the road where the Sturinnese had ridden the afternoon before was blanketed in sun-glistening white.
“It is a terrible sight,” murmured Palian.
Within herself, Secca had to agree. But how many more terrible sights will you need to behold before the struggle against the Maitre of Sturinn ends?
47
Wei, Nordwei
Setting aside the polished agate oval that she had been stroking with her fingers, Ashtaar covers her mouth with the dark green cloth and muffles the coughs that rack her body. After a time, she straightens and sits erect behind the desk, facing one of the empty straight-backed chair across the table-desk from her, her dark eyes abstracted, although her thoughts are a continent away.
As the bells that mark the turning of the glass strike, echoing across Wei from the tower to the north of the Council building, there is a single thrap on the wooden door.
“You may enter, Escadra.” Ashtaar’s voice is firm, almost hard.
The dark haired and stocky seer bows twice before stepping toward the desk, and the Council Leader who sits behind its polished and shimmering surface. Escadra sits on the front part of the chair, her eyes slightly downcast, so that she appears to be looking at Ashtaar, but so that she is not meeting the intensity of Ashtaar’s scrutiny.
“Go ahead." prompts the silver-haired Council Leader.
“The Shadow Sorceress has found yet another way to use the harmonies for destruction,” begins the seer, letting her words drift into silence, and looking to Ashtaar for a reaction.
“Spare me the opinions, Escadra, and tell me what happened.”
Escadra flushes, then replies. “She created a cyclone wide enough to destroy more than forty score Sturinnese lancers, and their Sea-Priest sorcerers and drummers, from more than ten deks distant, even across a range of hills. So violent was the spell that all the seers here in Wei could feel the harmonies chime.
“Harmonically?’ asks Ashtaar.
“Ah . . . yes, your mightiness. It was pure Clearsong, but strong and most violent.”
“Did it prostrate the sorceress or her assistant?’
“No, Leader Ashtaar. Or not for long. The recoil from the spell created a snowstorm that dropped a half a yard of snow across the land. Even so, they are riding northwest, back toward the trade pass into Neserea and the remaining Sturinnese forces.”
“I see.” Ashtaar grips the green cloth in her left hand and takes a sip of the water in the goblet on the side of the desk. She swallows before asking, ‘What about the Sturinnese? Are they retreating?”
“They appear to be drawing up onto a hilltop near the base of the trade pass.”
“A hilltop with a sheer rock cliff behind it, perchance?”
Escadra frowns, tilting her head and closing her eyes, as if trying to call up the image she had seen in the scrying pool. Finally, she opens her eyes. “I believe so, your mightiness.
“And would there be more drums and sorcerers in the remaining Sturinnese force?"
“Yes. It would appear so.”
“What does that tell us?” Ashtaar’s voice carries a forced patience.
Again, the seer frowns before responding. “That the Sturinnese wish to lure the sorceress into a trap, and that they are more concerned about her traveling into Neserea than in what she may do in Dumar?”
“Is there any other reasonable conclusion?”
“I cannot think of one.”
“This time...this time...you would appear correct. What does that imply for us in Wei."
There is another pause. “The Lord Belmar has destroyed the Sorceress of Defalk, though she slaughtered more than half his lancers, and the Sturinnese fleet is headed to Esaria. When they reach the last ice of the Bitter Sea, there they will use drum sorcery to break the ice.”
“So . . . there are no forces left in Neserea to stop. Lord Belmar?"
"The Liedfuhr’s lancers are almost through the Mittpas
s and near the western edge of the Great Western Forest.”
“Do they have any sorcerers?”
“No, Leader Ashtaar.”
“The younger sister of Annayal is now in Nordwei, is she not? And she is consorted to Eryhal, who is the presumptive heir to Fehern?”
“They are near Morgen, riding along the south branch of the River Nord.”
“No one else of import has escaped Belmar, have they?” Escadra’s hand goes to her mouth. “That would give the Sturinnese a reason to . . .”
“It would give them many reasons.” Ashtaar clears her throat, and swallows, then takes another sip of water. “Have you discerned who the Sea-Priest sorcerer is who travels upon occasion with Belmar?”
“No, Leader Ashtaar, save that often he is shielded in some fashion or another, and that he must have great power, and that them are others nearby, also shielded. Lord Belmar does not know they are present, from what we can discern.” Escadra pauses. “Are you going to send a scroll to Lord Rohoro. . .“ Her words trail away as Ashtaar’s eyes seem to flash, and then she stumbles over her next words. “I beg your pardon, your mightiness, I do. I am most sorry . . ."
“I may pardon you, or I may not. That is not for you to know or decide. Knowing that Lord Robero shies from his own shadow, and that his failure to send another sorceress and more lancers with the Sorceress of Defalk, would you think that such a scroll would prompt him to send greater aid to Neserea? With a Sturinnese fleet and the Liedfuhr’s lancers both ready to invade?”
Escadra winces.
“You are correct there, at least. Lord Robero will not learn any of this from us. Do you see why?”
“Yes, your mightiness.”
“Good.” Ashtaar covers her mouth with the heavy green cloth and coughs once, before taking another sip from her goblet. “You may go. Watch both Lord Belmar and the Shadow Sorceress . . .” Ashtaar gestures, wordlessly, for the seer to leave the study.
Escadra, her dark eyes lingering on the older woman, rises and bows.
Once the door closes, Ashtaar collapses into a long fit of coughing, the paroxysm muffled by the green cloth. Some considerable time passes before she straightens and takes another sip from her goblet.
48
Lady Secca . . .”
At the sound of Richina’s voice, low and urgent sounding, Secca forced open gummy eyes, trying to ignore the faint throbbing in her head. Her hand touched the canvas, by her cheek, and she frowned. Canvas? Where . . .?
As she looked up from the travel cot and around the silken tent, a tent whose side panels bore all too many stains and patches, the scattered fragments of memory swirling inside her head snapped into place. She was on the road back to Hasjyl, to deal with the last of the Sturinnese forces in Dumar. Slowly, she eased herself upright, looking down toward the closed front tent panel, trying to ignore the daystars that flashed across her vision, if infrequently.
Alcaren had taken to sleeping on a mat laid crosswise at the foot of Secca’s cot, claiming that was the best alternative, since he wished to be near his consort, but also wished not to displace Richina. Neither Alcaren nor Richina was anywhere to be seen.
"Lady Secca . . .?”
“You can come in, Richina,” Secca said, her voice cracking, as she turned and sat up sideways on the canvas cot. Even with her feet on the narrow mat, she could feel the chill of the ground below. She fumbled for the water bottle, prying out the cork with stiff fingers and taking a slow swallow.
Richina slipped inside the small tent and stood waiting at the foot of the cot.
Secca looked at the younger woman.
“Lady . . . there is a lord on his way here.”
“A lord?”
“He has retainers, and a squad of lancers, and they ride under twin banners—one white and the other a blue banner of harmony.”
“He doesn’t want trouble, then. No players?”
“None.”
Secca took another swallow from the water bottle before speaking. “How far away is he?”
“Lord Alcaren judges that the lord is still two deks to the west. He asked me to wake you.”
Secca bent over and pulled on her boots. “Tell him I’m getting ready.”
By the time she had eaten some bread and cheese, and made herself vaguely presentable, the dull headache had subsided, as had the daystars mostly. She fastened the green leather jacket loosely and stepped outside into a day that was not quite so sunny as the one previous. A high thin haze had turned the sky a pale blue, and a gentle and warmer breeze flowed out of the west across the flat of the sheltered meadow that lay slightly below the ridge road.
“Good morning, Lady Secca,” offered Rukor, from his post outside the tent. His voice was cheerful.
Secca smiled. “Good morning, Rukor, Dymen. I hope you got some rest.”
“That we did, lady,” answered Dymen. “We just relieved Achar and Easlon, less than a glass ago.”
All three turned as Alcaren rode up, almost as if he had been watching for her. “I hope you don’t mind. You were tired, and I thought you should get some more sleep, if you could.”
“I was tired,” Secca admitted. “Do you know who this lord is?”
“The scouts said that he calls himself Sylonn, and that the area around Hasjyl is his demesne. He told one of them that his uncle was Lord Ehara’s cousin.”
Ehara? The Lord of Dumar that Anna had defeated and destroyed? Secca frowned.
“He wants something, and he wants you to know that you should treat with him,” Alcaren observed.
“He could want almost anything the way matters are now,” Secca replied dryly. “Protection from the last of the Sturinnese, my assurance that he will keep his lands, a consort for him or his son, a bridge built . . .” She shook her head, thinking of all the possibilities.
Richina approached from the cook-fire. “Lady . . . if I might...”
“You may stay,” Secca said.
Alcaren turned. “Here he comes.”
“If you would stand ready,” Secca requested, looking at him.
“I will remain mounted, my lady,” her consort said with a laugh, “with my hand near my blade.”
Both Dymen and Rukor stepped forward, each standing a yard to the side and slightly in front of Secca. Richina stepped back toward the tent.
The five watched as Delcetta led two riders away from the column and toward Secca and Alcaren. One was a standard bearer, and the rider who followed the banner wore gray---a gray leather riding jacket, gray trousers and boots, and an odd-looking and short brimmed gray riding hat. The only color in his attire was a scarlet scarf knotted loosely around his neck.
Delcetta reined up a good ten yards from Secca, her eyes still on the two riders who had followed her. “Lady Secca, Lord Sylonn of Dumar has requested a moment of your time.”
“Thank you, Overcaptain.” Secca nodded to the Dumaran. “Welcome, Lord Sylonn.”
Sylonn dismounted, handing the reins of the gray stallion to the standard-bearer, who was also attired all in gray, but without the crimson scarf. Then the Dumaran lord took two steps toward Secca and bowed. “Lady Sorceress. I am Sylonn, Lord of Hesodryll, and most faithful subject of Dumar and of Lord Robero.” Sylonn’s hair was black and silver, but his square-trimmed beard was entirely silver. His small and deep-set brown eyes went to Alcaren, as if asking for an explanation.
Secca ignored the silent inquiry. “It is good to see a lord and loyal subject of Lord Robero. I must apologize for my appearance and for my not paying my respects to you, but we have been occupied---as you must know---with the Sturinnese.
Sylonn bowed a second time, then straightened. His flat brown eyes did not quite meet Secca’s amber ones when he began to speak. “All Dumar is grateful to you for your efforts. We had feared that everything would be lost.”
“We have not finished with those of Sturinn,” Secca said gently. “There is still another force to the north. There also may be Sturinne
se vessels sailing to Narial from the Ostisles.”
“Lady Sorceress . . . you have come to Dumar, as did the last great sorceress, and you have destroyed all the Sturinnese that have faced you. All know that you will destroy the remaining Sea-Priests—unless they flee before you can reach them.”
“It cannot be a secret that Defalk does not want the Sea-Priests anywhere in Liedwahr,” Secca temporized, wondering exactly what Sylonn wanted.
“None would want masters from Sturinn. The Sea-Priests will throw down a lord and a family who have served their people for generations. The Sturinnese give not a thought to what a man has done, only to what increases their power.”
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