The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Thank you.”

  At the knock on the door, Gorkon called, “The players, lady.”

  “Have them enter,” Secca replied.

  Palian stepped into the cottage, followed by Richina, then the first players. Bretnay, as usual, was the last to enter, carrying her violino case against her chest.

  Palian looked to Secca.

  “You can take your time to tune," Secca said. “I must warm up as well, and there is no hurry, and this spell must be done right. I will be using the seeking spell.”

  Palian nodded soberly.

  As the players uncased their instruments, Secca stepped to the corner of the room farthest from the players and began a soft vocalise.

  Alcaren remained by the table; close enough to grasp the candle-like tube, but saying nothing. Richina stood just inside the door, her eyes going from Secca to Alcaren, and then to the wax-covered tube.

  Secca ran through three vocalises before she was satisfied and looked to Palian.

  “We stand ready, Lady Secca.”

  “The seeking spell . . . if you would play it through once?”

  “The seeking spell,” Palian repeated. “On my mark. Mark.”

  Secca listened, matching the words in her mind to the notes, mentally checking the values and trying to create the images she wanted.

  After the run-through, Palian looked to Secca.

  The redheaded sorceress nodded. “The seeking spell, on my mark.” She tried not to think too deeply about what the spell she was unleashing would lead to throughout Lied­wahr, pausing for a moment before saying, “Mark!”

  As the accompaniment rose in the confines of the cottage, Secca launched into the spell.

  “Take this missile, both north and west,

  deliver it in heat to Belmar’s breast,

  with force to spread its deadly salt,

  and bring his life to its sudden halt...

  “Take this missile, in speed and flight...”

  As she sang the words, Secca could feel a cold stillness drop across the room, so still that there seemed to be no sound, save that of her voice and the tones of the players. A bone-deep chill infused her, rising from the ground be­neath her.

  A single, iron-cold harmonic chime shivered through Secca, and she could feel her knees buckling, could see Al­caren moving toward her. But she could not move as she toppled into his arms.

  57

  North of Nesalia, Neserea

  The Sea-Priest once known as jerGlien, still in traveler’s gray, looks down upon the body sprawled on the floor of the study, a figure blackened and charred, except below the knees, and convulsed in the agony of sudden and excru­ciating death.

  “Who would have thought it?” The Sea-Priest smiles coldly as he looks up. “Yet . . . if she can do such, then so can we . . ."

  He breaks off as the study door opens. Through it steps a tall and lean younger man in the white of a Sturinnese sorcerer.

  “Maitre! I felt the harmonies. As you requested, I im­mediately used the glass to find the Sorceress Protector. She had done some great sorcery, but I could not see---" His eyes drop to the lifeless figure of Belmar on the floor.

  “The young sorceress has learned a new trick.” The Mai­tre laughs. “We shall have to learn to master it as well.”

  “She did that from so far?”

  “She did indeed.” The older man fixes his eyes on the younger sorcerer. “Have you sent the scrolls?"

  “Yes, Maitre. The fleet is already entering the Bitter Sea and beginning to fire a channel. The southern waters around Esaria have already begun to melt, and the fleet will be in position in close to two weeks---no more than three.”

  “Unless we hurry and join up with the others, we may not be back to Esaria by then.”

  “Will removing the Liedfuhr’s lancers and armsmen take that long?”

  The Maitre laughs. “Removing them will not be the most difficult task. Getting into position to do so will be. Liedfuhr Kestrin has few illusions. He has ordered them to avoid Lord Belmar and any sorcerers. Possibly, he has even or­dered them to avoid us.”

  “Does he know that we have forces throughout Neserea?”

  “It does not appear so. His seers will discover such, but it will take time for him to get word to them.”

  “What about the Sorceress Protector of the East?” asks the younger man. “If she has done this . . .."

  The Maitre inclines his head toward the dead Belmar. “You can see. She is stronger, far stronger, than the Sor­ceress of Defalk, but strength is not everything. Even if she tears through mountains, she will be too late.”

  “If she does not?”

  The Maitre smiles. ‘Where can she go, and what can she do? Dumar has no ruler and is in chaos. She is unwelcome in Ranuak, and by the time she returns to Defalk, Neserea will be ours, and Lord Robero will be more than pleased to accept our terms. Our agent there has been slowly suggest­ing that we offer much. Besides, what choice has he? His power rests on a handful of sorceresses, and he has already lost one of the more powerful ones. It is most unlikely that he will hazard the others to save lands that have proven rebellious and ungrateful."

  “But the Sorceress Protector?"

  The Maitre shakes his head. “I would not have thought that she could have struck so hard from so far, but what she has done, we will do . . . when the time is right.”

  "Why should we not strike in return? Now?"

  The Maitre offers a lopsided smile. “I have no such spell. Do you? Do you have the accompaniment for the players and drummers?"

  “No, ser.”

  “That is why you maintain the wards. They were designed for those closer, but they should work against more distant sorceries.” The Maitre frowns, albeit briefly. “Yet you raise a good point.” He smiles, again coldly. “I give you leave to craft such a spell and its accompaniment. Then bring it to me, and we will consider its use when the time is right.”

  “Ah . . . as you wish, Maitre.”

  “Where is the Sorceress Protector now?”

  “In a hamlet along the Envar River. She is prostrate.”

  “She is doubtless recovering from the sorcery that killed Lord Belmar. Nasty and difficult spell,” muses the older sorcerer. “He erupted in flame, and then died of poisoning.”

  The younger Sea-Priest shudders.

  “She is not to be taken lightly. Not as a sorceress. But even great sorcery has its limits, as she is discovering. Our departed ally here”---the Maitre looks down at the dead Bel­mar---“never did understand that treachery and good planning can outflank mere sorcery. Even great sorcery.” He smiles, half-sadly. “Poor fellow. I could not have set it up better myself.” Then he glances back at the other man in white. “You will continue to make sure the wards are held?”

  “Yes, Maitre.”

  “She may not try again soon, for none can repeat such sorcery easily or quickly, but . . . it is far better to be pre­pared.”

  “Maitre . . . I must ask again if we should not strike her in the same fashion, before she can discover you are here?”

  “We must have the right, spell, and it will take time to craft it. I will set jerEstafen on it immediately. For now, until we can strike, I am protected. She cannot attack all of us from that distance, and I would rather save our strength to take Neserea. Also, she can do nothing for the moment.” The Maitre gestures for the other to leave him. “I will join you presently.”

  Once the study door closes, the Maitre walks to the win­dow, where he eases open the shutter and gazes out into the gray day, frowning.

  58

  On the pallet in the corner of the dwelling’s main room, Secca lay in her bedroll, the top blanket rolled back to her waist. Sweat still beaded on her forehead, and her undertunic was soaked with perspiration. She could feel the heat pouring from her, despite the coolness of the air inside the cottage. Outside, the day was gray and windy. A light rain had fallen earlier, Alcaren had said, but not enough to do more than
dampen the dust on the roads.

  “Here." Alcaren tendered her a chipped mug filled with songspelled and cleaned water. “You need to keep drink­ing.”

  “All . . . I . . . do is drink,” she murmured.

  "It’s only been a night and a morning.”

  "It seems like forever."

  “The fever is breaking,” he said. “It won’t be long.”

  Secca’s fingers still trembled as she drank, and some of the water spilled across her cheek. “Harmonies save me . . .”

  “You’ll be fine,” Alcaren promised. “The worst is over.”

  Secca managed to raise her eyebrows in inquiry. “You think so?"

  “Belmar is dead,” Alcaren said. “Richina used the glass to check. He deserved no better after all those he killed.”

  “That may be.” Secca took a slow breath. Alcaren had been right. She was feeling steadier. Not that much, but clearly she was starting to get her strength back. “How soon will it be before I must do something like it once more? Or before some other sorcerer or sorceress learns what I have done and replicates it?"

  “Who else would know?"

  “What about the Sea-Priest sorcerer with Belmar?"

  Alcaren did not quite meet her eyes, close as he was.

  “How soon before I must do more, if we are to survive? And then more, as the Sea-Priests retaliate?"

  Alcaren offered a shrug and a rueful expression.

  “Or, the harmonies forbid, find some protective spell that takes more strength so that some sorcerer does not do the same to us?"

  Both looked up as the door squeaked, and edged open, letting more grayish light into the cottage. With the light came Richina, slipping inside, and closing the door, and shutting off the light. The younger sorceress tiptoed away from the door, awkwardly in her riding boots, and glanced toward the corner.

  “She’s awake,” Alcaren confirmed. “You can come over.”

  “You frightened us, Lady Secca.” Richina pulled over one of the stools and sat down facing the two.

  “Again.” Secca coughed.

  Alcaren offered the mug once more. Secca took another swallow, then handed it back.

  Richina glanced toward the warped table, still set against the wall where Alcaren had pushed it the, day before, and the scrying glass yet lying upon the uneven wood.

  Alcaren lifted the mug, silently urging Seeca to drink yet more.

  Secca took another sip, noting that Richina shifted her weight on the stool, although she had just seated herself.

  The eyes of the younger sorceress drifted to her right, back toward the table again, before she looked straight at Secca. “Your sorcery. . . it was most effective, lady.”

  “It was effective at prostrating me as well,” Secca said dryly, stifling another cough.

  “But more effective on Belmar,” Alcaren replied quickly. Secca looked directly at Richina. “Something is fretting you.”

  “It is nothing. Nothing, lady.”

  “It is more than nothing. You’ve looked toward the scrying glass three times since you entered. What is it?"

  Richina looked to Alcaren. He nodded.

  Stop babying me, Secca wanted to yell, but that would have just made her cough more.

  “That Sturinnese fleet . . . it’s left Defuhr Bay, and it’s sailing northward, Lady Secca,” Richina said.

  “Northward?” Secca coughed twice before glancing at Al­caren.

  “There is more, lady,” Richina added apologetically. “The Sturinnese destroyed two port cities in northern Mansuur, and they are using sorcery to melt a channel through the Bitter Sea.”

  “Toward Esaria, I would wager,” Secca croaked.

  “That is a wager none of us would take,” Alcaren replied.

  “I cannot say that I am astounded,” Secca finally said. “I had wondered, but it is clear that Belmar was a tool of the Sea-Priests. Perhaps an unwitting tool, but a tool.” She took the mug from her consort and took another long swallow.

  Richina offered a sound between a cough and a swallow.

  “More bad news?’ asked Secca dryly.

  “I have tried to use the glass to find the Sea-Priest who was with Belmar . . .” Richina’s voice trailed off.

  “And?”

  “The glass shows nothing.”

  Secca nodded, almost to herself.

  “Lady?"

  “I must think about that,” replied the older sorceress, as she pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, after realizing that she was getting chilled.

  “I told you that you were getting better,” Alcaren said. “The backlash from sorcery does not last that long.”

  “If one survives it to begin with,” Secca replied, yawning.

  “I should go.” Richina stood and slid the stool back to­ward the table.

  After Richina slipped out, Secca lay back. “Dissonance, I’m tired. One spell . . . one spell, and it’s as bad as . . . well, almost as bad as fighting that Sturinnese fleet”

  “I wonder why,” mused Alcaren.

  “I don’t know, but it is.” She held back another yawn.

  Alcaren stiffened. “It could be the visualization. For the most effective sorcery, you have to visualize the results. Did you visualize what happened to Belmar?”

  Secca frowned. “How could I not?” She shivered.

  “It could be that creates the effect of Darksong,” sug­gested her consort.

  “Because I’m visualizing the effect on something living?” questioned Secca.

  “I’m just suggesting. But . . . doesn’t the idea fit? I looked over that spell you used against the crews of the Sturinnese ships. If you take the words by themselves, they’re pure Clearsong. The effect back on you was more like Dark-song.”

  Secca’s mouth opened, then closed.

  “When you spellsing, you know that you’re affecting something that is living,” Alcaren went on. “Did you not tell me that the lady Anna did a great deal of Darksong when she first came to Liedwahr, but that the backlash did not affect her for seasons, if not longer.”

  Secca nodded. “I never thought about that. She was only affected by what one would call true Darksong, because she was not raised in Liedwahr and had no idea . . .“

  “I wonder if that was why Belmar was so effective,” mused Alcaren.

  “Lady Anna said we were stronger than we thought . . .” Secca let her words trail off. “Strong? I feel like a baby. Or an old woman.”

  “You’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Alcaren promised.

  “I’m tired. I’m tired of always using force and more force. I’m tired of having to use sorcery to destroy ships and those upon them. I’m tired of shadow sorcery.”

  "What would you do?" asked Alcaren slowly. “Raise the oceans like the. Sea-Priests did? Level entire cities the way Lady Anna did?”

  “I’d like to lay a spell on the Sea-Priests. They’re the ones causing all the problems for Liedwahr. I can’t. That’s Darksong, any way you sing it.”

  “But they raised two great waves against Encora, and that was Clearsong,” he countered. “We just need to find a way to use a great mass of something that isn’t living and never lived against them. That would be harmonic justice, wouldn’t it?” He laughed.

  Secca frowned. “From what Richina said, I have to won­der if the Sea-Priests aren’t using spells to protect them­selves from spells from us.”

  “They didn’t protect Belmar,” he pointed out.

  “No, and that is most troubling. Most troubling.” She tried to stifle yet another yawn, hoping that Alcaren was right and that she would be stronger by the morrow.

  “Everything is that way. Troubling, that is.”

  “We need to . . .” Secca let her words drift to a halt. She smiled . . . for a moment

  Alcaren studied her for a time. “You have an idea, do you not?’

  “I do. But it may not be a good idea.” Secca yawned. “I’m too tired to know.”

  “You can tell me,” he sugges
ted.

  She yawned again and shook her head. “I need to sleep and think about it. Then, we can talk about it.”

  “Promise?" he asked.

  “I promise,” she affirmed, yawning again and trying not to, trying to fix that one idea in her mind. “But . . . have to sleep.”