The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “No. We both know that.” Why does it have to be this way? Why does it always come back to who can do what to whom? Secca shook her head.

  Alcaren waited, and Secca could feel his eyes on her. At last, she replied, “Tomorrow or the next day, or perhaps the day after. She will need rest, as well.”

  Alcaren nodded.

  You risk so much. Yet you risk more by doing nothing. Secca tried to push the thoughts from her mind. You can do nothing at this moment. Nothing.

  Alcaren put his arm around her, silently, so lightly that she almost did not notice it at first, and they remained at the railing, looking westward, toward Stura.

  75

  South of Worlan, Neserea

  Two Sea-Priests stand before the Maitre’s camp table, erect, their uniforms spotless, waiting, their heads al­most touching the overhead fabric of the traveling tent. Out­side the tent, the day is gray and chill.

  The Maitre shifts his weight on the padded stool and looks up. “Where is she?"

  “We do not know, Maitre,” offers the shorter man. “As we have told you, when we try to scry her image, we see but our own. By scrying the ships, we can see that she is upon a Ranuan vessel, but it is on the open ocean. Its head­ing appears to be westward. That would follow if she in­tends to travel to Neserea by sea.”

  “The ship is too far from land to say where she is?”

  “Yes, Maitre.”

  “How many vessels?”

  “Ten, Maitre.” This time the taller Sturinnese sorcerer re­plies. “Six are vessels she captured from us with sorcery last winter. We think. They have white hulls and our lines.”

  “So she has embarked her entire force upon Ranuan ves­sels, and they head westward?” The Maitre frowns. “What of the fleet of Nordwei?"

  “It nears the Ostisles,” replies the taller man. “The home defense fleet is prepared to give chase.”

  “Is there any sign that they work together?”

  “None, Maitre. It is possible, but there are no signs.”

  “And the Assistant Sorceress Of Defalk?”

  “She, too, is now warded. We do not know how long her wards have been there. We had not used the glass to find her in . . . some time. The wards, they are not like those we use.”

  “There is much the bitch sorceresses do that .is not as it should be,” the Maitre replies. “You may go. Keep watch­ing, and let me know if you see such and when you can determine with certainty the destination of the Shadow Sor­ceress.” The dark-haired and sharp-featured Maitre gestures for the two to leave.

  Once they have departed, his eyes fall to the maps spread across the camp table. “Wards that are not wards, or more than wards. Ships from all across Liedwahr, and the support of the Matriarch. Between the Sorceress Protector and that bitch Ashtaar, we are spread too thin.” He shakes his head. “The shadowsinger . . . that one is too malicious---and too clever by half. Tearing her tongue out would be too kind. Far too kind.”

  The panels of the tent flutter ever so slightly in the light and chill wind.

  76

  Spacious as the captain’s cabin had seemed, it was cramped with eight people crowded into it. Cramped . . .and close. Secca, Alcaren, Richina, and Denyst sat around the table, with Palian, Delvor, Delcetta, and Wilten standing behind them. The sole light came through the green-tinted glass of the twin portholes and the prism-like skylenses set in the overhead, leaving the cabin dimly lit, even if far brighter than twilight.

  On the circular table were maps---those Alcaren had found and those charts belonging to the Silberwelle.

  Secca listened closely as Denyst continued to explain.

  “. . . making near-on twelve deks per glass now, but we’ve had favoring winds, and they won’t hold as they have. Leastwise, can’t count on such.. even if we could, be an­other three days afore we sighted the Ostisles, a bit less than a week after that before we’d see the fringe isles east of Stura.”

  “In a few days, even if the winds don’t hold, we may be able to help there, as we have before,” Secca pointed out.

  "I'd rather the winds held,” Alcaren said with a laugh. “So that we can, save the sorcery for other matters.”

  “So would I." Denyst responded.

  Richina nodded.

  Secca looked from the maps to Alcaren and then to Den­yst. “All the isles of Sturinn together are not that much larger than Defalk, and the isle of Stura is but half the size of Defalk. Yet they have built many fleets of fivescore ves­sels and lost hundreds of scores of lancers---with hundreds of scores remaining.”

  “True enough,” the captain agreed.

  “Most of the lancer rankers do not come from Sturinn,” Alcaren said. “They are from Pelara or the Ostisles. If they survive and are promoted through the ranks to become of­ficers, after a number of years, they can take a stipend and live in great comfort in their homeland. The officers who survive live almost like lords.”

  “So many do that?" asked Richina. “Enough that thousands upon thousands die willingly year upon year?"

  “Stipended lancers and armsmen are free men, anywhere in the Sturinnese lands and isles, no matter from where they came,” Alcaren pointed out “Even crafters and artisans are little better than slaves unless they are from the home isles of Sturinn.”

  And all women are slaves. Secca kept the thought to her­self, instead asking, “Can we avoid the Ostisles and make straight for Stura?”

  “We can try,” Denyst replied. “If they do not send fleets after us. The Ostisles lie low against the ocean and have many reefs around them. That will work for us. That is less true of the isles of Sturinn.” Denyst glanced toward Secca. “Stura is a port city, but Inylt, where they say the palace of the Maitre stands, lies upland and inland.”

  “We will do what we can,” Secca replied, trying to choose her words with great care. “I would rather do all possible by sorcery than try to land lancers in such an inhospitable place.” She smiled grimly.

  “No offense to you, Lady Secca,” observed Wilten, “but we would rather not land there, if other means are possible.”

  “If . . . if the sorcery works as we hope,” Secca said slowly, “then we still must return to Liedwahr and Neserea to defeat the forces of the Maitre that remain. No matter what we do to the isles of Sturinn, those forces will never surrender.”

  “Never have, and never will,” added Denyst succinctly.

  ‘Do you know what accompaniment you will use?” in­quired Palian.

  Secca had been planning to tell the chief player, but merely answered, “You had best keep them well practiced with the first building song. We may need that if the Stu­rinnese send warships after us. And for the spell against Stura . . .they will need to practice the fifth building spell. I know that they do not use it as much . . ." Secca could not recall when it had been last used, although Anna had in­sisted on the players knowing and practicing it.

  “In a week, they will know it as well as the others,” Palian promised. “That they will.”

  “And the second players as well,” Delvor added.

  “We still might need the flame spell,” Secca said. “And in another day, we will need to reset the ward spells.”

  Palian raised her eyebrows.

  “Richina will take over the wards,” Secca explained. Both players nodded.

  “I had wondered, but did not wish to ask . . .” ventured the gray-haired Palian.

  “We are upon the sea, and that makes spellsinging from a distance less effective,” Alcaren said. “We will see, but we think that for a few days, Richina will be able to hold the wards if she does little else.”

  “I can do it,” Richina said, her chin stiffening almost im­perceptibly.

  “You will. You have done everything else needed,” Al­caren said warmly.

  Secca wished she had been so quick, but she was still tired and not thinking so well as she should be.

  Palian and Delvor both smiled briefly.

  “Is there aught els
e that I should know?” asked Secca, taking in each face around and behind the table. After a long moment of silence, she concluded with a smile, “Then we will meet tomorrow.”

  The overcaptains slipped out of the cabin first, followed by Delvor.

  Palian stopped and leaned toward Secca. “They will play them well, and even if the deck throws them from side to side.”

  Secca smiled warmly at the older woman, murmuring, “I’ve always been able-to count on you, even back when I wasn’t the best pupil with the lutar or the violino.”

  “You have learned, my lady, and for that we are all grateful.” With a smile and a nod, Palian turned and eased out through the door-like hatch.

  Denyst nodded brusquely. “Don’t know what you plan, but don’t go easy on the Sea-Pigs.”

  “I don’t plan to. We have but one chance.”

  “Good. Need to check topside.”

  Then the captain was gone, leaving Secca, Alcaren, and Richina.

  “You need some more rest, Richina,” Secca said. “Are your quarters . . .?"

  “They’re small, but the bed is good, and it is good to be with Palian.” Richina smiles. “Sometimes, she even tells me stories about when you were young.”

  Secca winced. “There are such stories, I am sure.”

  “She said that you sang a spell that lit a fire when you were but nine. Is that so?"

  The redheaded sorceress laughed. “It is. I’d memorized part of a spell Lady Anna had used. Lady Anna made me prom­ise not to sing another one until she taught me much more.”

  “It’s good to know you weren’t perfect.”

  “I never was.”

  “But everyone thinks you are.”

  Secca just shook her head as Richnia stood. Alcaren closed the hatch door after Richina left, then turned to the table, where he began to re-roll the maps that had been spread there.

  Secca looked down at the map of Stura for a moment, before Alcaren lifted it and began to roil it.

  “You hide much,” Alcaren said slowly, after replacing the maps in their cases. He sat back down at the table, waiting for Secca to sit.

  Secca remained standing.

  “Do you not wish to let them know what you plan?" he asked.

  “I have not hidden that we will use terrible spells.” Secca shook her head sadly. “It is just that they cannot understand how terrible.” She looked across the table at her consort. “Had you not read them, would you know?”

  “No,” Alcaren admitted. “You fear that some would make the voyage more difficult did they know?"

  “I think not, but I would worry that some of the players would not play so well did they know. You recall how Bret­nay is, and Rowal would not speak for days after the worst of the storm spells.”

  Alcaren nodded slowly. “You know which spell, then. Perhaps, you should let me study it, if it must be done. I should know the words and melody as well as you.”

  Secca eased around the table to the covered bin by the over­size bunk. From there she took a leather folder, opening it and taking out what Anna had called a manila envelope. On the outside was written “Armageddon” in Anna’s graceful but an­gular hand. The sheet Secca wanted was the second one, and she eased it out, then replaced the envelope in the leather folder before handing the single sheet to Alcaren.

  He read slowly, swallowing. “You showed me this one before. Why this one?”

  “Because of your map,” she explained. “The north of the isle is like the Ring of Fire, and the mountains overlook both Inylt and the port city of Stura itself.”

  Alcaren frowned, as if he did not understand, but did not wish to say so.

  “The lady Anna told me, long years ago, that it is easier to use what is than to create all the elements of a spell from noth­ing. The sea is there, but it cannot reach beyond the towns and cities on the coast, no matter how mighty the spell.”

  “Whereas this . . ."

  “It might reach most of the isle and all the places where those who might seek revenge live and work,” Secca fin­ished.

  “It is a terrible spell,” he murmured.

  “It is.” Secca sighed. “It is also pure Clearsong.”

  “But terrible,” he repeated.

  “Will anything less suffice?” she asked meeting his gray-­blue eyes with her amber orbs.

  After a moment, he shook his head.

  77

  Wei, Nordwei

  Because the day is gray, the shutters and hangings in Ashtaar’s study and receiving room are drawn back. Outside, dark clouds hang over the city, and occasional fat flakes of spring snow drift past the ancient glass of the win­dowpanes. Inside, the Council Leader sits behind her ebony table desk, the hand in her lap holding a freshly laundered green cloth, the other resting on the polished surface of the table, her fingers less than a span from the polished dark agate oval.

  The seer Escadra settles herself into the chair across from Ashtaar.

  “What have you to tell me?” asks the older woman.

  Escadra clears her throat before she begins. “We still can­not scry the sorceress directly. The glasses show that a half-score of Ranuan ships are bearing and escorting the Sorceress Protector of Defalk westward. They could be trav­eling toward the Ostisles or the isles of Sturinn, but that is far from certain.”

  “Not to Neserea?” questions Ashtaar.

  “The ships have been sailing due west for days, Leader Ashtaar,” Escadra states. “They have been under full sail, and they should have long passed the point where they would turn northward, were they headed to Neserea.”

  “If they change their course, I am to know at once.”

  The seer nods.

  “What of the Sturinnese in Neserea?”

  “The force which left Dumar is nearing the Sturinnese armsmen who have been attacking the Liedfuhr’s lancers. Another group, mostly of Sea-Priest sorcerers, is riding northward. They look to be headed somewhere to the west of Esaria. They also are difficult to scry.”

  “They ride to Worlan, where they will meet the Sturin­nese fleet to take Esaria.” Ashtaar covers her mouth with the green cloth and coughs, but only once.

  “That may be, Leader. The Sturinnese ships have been slowed because the ice in the Bitter Sea is breaking early.”

  “How far are they from Esaria?”

  “We believe within a score of deks, but that was before they were caught in the floes moving.”

  “Have any been damaged by the ice?”

  “Two, so far as we can see. They have used much sorcery, though.”

  “Good. Best they be tired.” Ashtaar gives a hard smile, which vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. “And our fleet?”

  “It appears to remain near the Ostisles, as you instructed last fall,” replies Escadra. “The Sturinnese have mustered what ships they have remaining in Stura.” The seer pauses. “Do you know what the fleet will do?”

  “I trust that they will do as instructed, and that is to stay as long as possible without having to fight a sea battle against the Sturinnese. If they do . . . then we may serve the shadowsinger well, and in turn she may serve us even more.”

  “Do you know, Leader . . .?” ventures Escadra almost timidly.

  “I have no idea what she plans. She may land forces and try to subdue Stura. She may send waves crashing over their cities. She may destroy their ships and fleet. She may do something else. Whatever it may be, it will be less than the Maitre and his white-suited Sea-Pigs deserve.”

  Escadra’s mouth drops open, if but for an instant.

  Ashtaar’s eyes flare, and her voice snaps. “More coins and more men and women have been lost throughout Erde because the Maitres of Sturinn have decided that women should be chained, if not worse. Our people are poorer, as are all of those of Liedwahr, because we have had to prepare to repulse them. Mansuur has lost two port cities to their raids. Dumar has been prostrated twice in a generation. Ebra is hardly better. And the rest of Erde is in worse condition. Most
people in Pelara and the Ostisles are slaves in both name and fact so that a handful of men can live in great luxury, and a larger number—only of men, mind you—can live in comfort.”

  Ashtaar barely gets the cloth over her mouth before she doubles over in a wave of coughing.

  So violent is the attack that Escadra lurches upright and steps toward the Council Leader; Then she pauses, as if uncertain as to what she should do.