The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  With a nod, Denyst headed back toward the helm. “Two points to port!”

  “Two to port. Coming port.”

  Secca walked to the railing overlooking the main deck, catching Palian’s eye. “Time for a warm-up and one run-through. Then we’ll do the spell.”

  “The warm-up tune!” Palian’s voice lifted over the rush of the water against the hull of the Silberwelle and above the rustling and flapping of the sails above as the Silberwelle turned in response to Denyst’s command.

  Secca could discern, especially as outlined by the low southern sun that was about to set behind the headlands, the volcanic cone that formed the southern end of a half bay, the cone that was the most seaward of the line of volcanoes that ran across Stura from northeast to southwest.

  As the sun was dropping behind the higher hills beyond the shoreline, Richina had come up on deck, perhaps to take in the cool of the late afternoon, and to watch the spellsing­ing, but the younger sorceress remained within a yard of Denyst, and well away from Alcaren and Secca.

  Alcaren straightened and cleared his throat. “Are you ready?”

  Secca nodded.

  “Remember, my lady, your words, and notes, and thoughts, only on the spell. Only on the spell.”

  “Only on the spell,” Secca repeated. Only on the spell-song . . .

  "The fifth building song at my mark…Mark!” Palian’s voice was calm and yet forceful.

  Alcaren and Secca moved outward along the railing sep­arating the poop deck from the drop to the main deck until they stood in the corner between the starboard-side railing and the poop deck railing, facing into the early twilight, listening to the players playing through the fifth building song. Secca concentrated one last time on the words and images.

  When the players had finished the run-through, and checked tuning and their instruments, Secca considered the spell, wondering, far from the first time, how Anna had learned so much, and why so few in Liedwahr understood just how much her mentor had known about so many things.

  She glanced at Denyst, then turned back to look down on Palian and the players. “Stand by for the fifth building song.”

  “Standing by, at your signal, lady,” Palian returned. Secca took one slow deep breath, then a second, exhaling slowly. She looked toward Alcaren. He nodded.

  The redheaded sorceress raised her hand. “At your mark, chief player.” She lowered her arm and hand.

  For that instant, Secca felt that all Erde paused … as if to say that one time was ending, and another beginning.

  Then, Palian’s voice cut through the slowly fading light. “The fifth building song. At my mark . . . Mark!”

  From the first note, the players were strong, the notes clear, the energy focused, and the song lifted toward the shore, toward the isle of Stura, toward the volcanic cones that harbored hidden flame and fire.

  Secca and Alcaren joined together, perfectly, with the first note of the third bar.

  “Magma of the core, fire for Sturinn ‘s woe,

  rise and climb from the mantle deep below;

  explode in flame, and from the earth in fire flow.

  Searing every river, hill and dale, and plain

  with gas and ash and lava till none remain

  untouched unstruck, and none escape the fire ‘s

  bane . . ." .

  By the end of the first stanza a deep roaring and grum­bling filled the air, and the waters between the Silberwelle and the white sand of the narrow beach below the steep bluffs shivered. The water calmed, unnaturally, and the spray and whitecaps that had marked where the ocean met the reef vanished. A flat and glassy stillness lay across the water like a blanket, and even the air seemed heavy, leaden.

  Secca forced her concentration back onto the notes, the words, and the images of the second stanza.

  “Lava rise, and lava flare, burst on all below;

  cover every town and road in fire ‘s glow,

  split the land and force the sea to fire know.

  With heat and steam and molten rock bring to bear

  all destruction of the earth and sea to Sturinn fair

  till none remain, and none will know what is buried

  there...”

  With the last note, a single off-key, two-toned note chimed through the air. Not as chord, but one note embod­ying, it seemed to Secca, all of harmony and all of disso­nance.

  Her head throbbed, and knives of fire stabbed into her eyes, accompanied by flaring daystars, but her vision was not doubled, as with Darksong-tinged spellsong. Still, seeing was painful enough that tears oozed from her eyes, and her skull ached as if pounded by unseen hammers.

  The distant roaring grumble continued to rise. Small ripples flicked across the surface of the unnaturally flat bay, ripples running from the sandy shore toward and past the Silberwelle.

  For a moment, Secca just stared at the isle, trying to see through the daystars across the dark waters toward the land. Gouts of liquid fire began to spray from the darkness of the shadowed land, from just behind the white line of the sandy beach to the cultivated hillsides and forests above. The fire fountains began to thicken, and the heat—even a dek off­shore---began to increase. Within moments, the air was hot, almost like that just above an oven or a fire, so hot that Secca flung up her arm to shield her face.

  “Hard starboard! Steady on due north.”

  “Coming starboard.”

  Before the ship had even heeled slightly into the turn, a rushing gust of hot air struck Secca, so hard that she stag­gered. Above her sails cracked in the abrupt gust, and a long ripping sound followed. A huge thundering crash, as though a mountain wall had fallen,

  reverberated in Secca’s ears.

  The Silberwelle heeled farther, and Secca clutched for the railing to keep her feet. But her eyes remained on Stura. Openmouthed, she watched, frozen at the railing, as cloud of glowing ash surged downhill from the volcanic cone, as trees flattened and burst into flame almost simultaneously with the wind that preceded the avalanche of ash. Then the houses on the lower slopes vanished under the luminous ash.

  As the Silberwelle turned, crew scrambling through the rigging, and shifting to catch the wind from a different angle, Secca turned away and took a stumbling step toward the ladder that would take her below, out of the heat that she had created. Didn’t know . . . it would be like this...

  To the northeast, far into the distance, the sea continued to flatten and take on an ominous and deadly silvery shim­mer.

  “Everyone below! Everyone below!” The frantic energy in Denyst’s voice was all too clear.

  Secca’s legs felt like lead, her arms as if she could not lift them, but lift them she did, turning at the top of the ladder. Halfway down the ladder another blast of wind ripped through the Silberwelle, slamming Secca against the ladder.

  “Bring her round another point! Into the sea! Into the sea!”

  The sails flapped in the rising hot winds that gusted round the Silberwelle, first blowing from the land, then swirling back southward.

  Secca winced as several pinpoints of fire fell from the sky and jabbed at her hands and neck, and she scrambled down the lower part of the ladder, landing with a jolt on the hard planking of the main deck. Her eyes went to the mass of players.

  “Into the fo’c’sle!” Delvor’s voice was the one that rose above the clamor on the main deck.

  Secca took a last glance backward. Above Stura rose an enormous plume of fiery ash, glowing and radiating heat far more intense than any sun Secca had ever felt

  Looking upward, Secca could see Alcaren half-helping, half-dragging Richina to the ladder, and she stopped at the bottom of the ladder to help the younger sorceress, hurrying, and then pushing her into the passageway. Alcaren scram­bled after them.

  The narrow passageway was far cooler than the deck out­side, but Secca did not stop to enjoy the comparative com­fort, but staggered into the captain’s quarters, half-pushing, half-urging Richina into the nearest chair, an
d taking the one beside her, grateful once more that the chairs were firmly bolted to the deck.

  Secca glanced toward the open wooden bin fastened to the bulkhead, where the cased lutar and wrapped scrying mirror were stowed, glad that the net covering was tied in place.

  Alcaren shut the door and scrambled into the chair next to Secca.

  “Why . . .?” stammered Richina.

  “Why did she want us below?” asked Alcaren. “Because the spell conjured another great wave. We might be far enough to sea not to be dashed onto the rocks---if it’s not too large a wave, or there aren’t too many. I hope there aren’t.”

  Secca hoped so as well, recalling both the damages she had seen from such waves and knowing Alcaren’s discom­fort with sea travel.

  The Silberwelle’s timbers shivered with a deep bass rum­bling, not something of sorcery or harmony, but a sound any could hear, and the ship heeled and then righted herself.

  “She’s got her headed into the wave,” Alcaren said. “Now . . .if we have enough time and enough sea . . .” His eyes flicked toward the forward porthole.

  From where she sat, and with the continued stabbing pain in her eyes, Secca could see little, just smudges of darkness and an eerie red glowing. The ship seemed to settle, almost coming to a halt in calm waters.

  “Hold on. Hold tight!” said Alcaren, gripping the arms of the chair in which he sat.

  In spite of knowing what was coming, and having been through it before, Secca’s mouth still opened wide as the deck tilted and the forward bulkhead of the cabin rose more than a yard above the rear one. The bow dropped with a lurch, and a shudder ran through the Silberwelle, from stem to stern

  “Didn’t break her back” muttered Alcaren. His hand went to his forehead, and he massaged his temples.

  The cabin went dark as water surged past the portholes. Then there was a glimmer of grayness, before more water covered the tinted green glass. The Silberwelle half cork-screwed, heeled, then righted herself once more.

  Secca realized that the air in the cabin had become no­ticeably warmer and damper, not quite steamy, but hot and sticky. She swallowed as she realized that the heat was com­ing from her, especially from her face. She put her fingertips to her cheek and then her forehead . . . and winced at the pain.

  Alcaren pulled himself out of his chair and, one hand on the chair, and then on the end of the bunk, made his way to the porthole, where he watched for a long moment.

  “Are we going to be safe?” asked Richina anxiously. “Can you tell?”

  He turned slowly. Even in the dim light, Secca could see that his face was bright red, as perhaps hers was.

  “We’ve still got headway, and the waves are subsiding for now,” Alearen finally replied.

  Secca feared she understood what he meant. Feared that their spell had been all too successful. She swallowed, trying to ignore the pounding in her bead and the daystars that flickered before her.

  Alcaren eased himself back into his seat. “We’d only be in the way topside, at least for a while.” Then he tightened his lips and looked at Secca.

  Richina looked from Secca to Alcaren and then back to Secca, but neither Alcaren nor Secca spoke. Both sat in the growing darkness, thinking, their faces burning.

  89

  Esaria, Neserea

  In the dimness broken but by a single oil lamp, the Maitre is standing. He watches the door to the small study where he waits, off the audience hall, when there is a single rap on the door.

  “You may enter, jerClayne.”

  “Ser . . .“ The younger Sea-Priest bows, then swallows. The blotchiness of his face is obvious, even in the dim light. “Stura is no more, Maitre . . . not as we know it. The isle . . .it is little more than boiling rock.”

  “I could tell that a glass ago.” The Maitre’s voice is tight, and yet there is an anger like cold iron underlying his words. “Have you determined what happened?”

  “All the great volcanoes, those that have not seen fire in generations . . . all of them . . . it is nothing I have seen, nothing I have read . . . it is not a thing we---"

  “Do not tell me what we cannot do!” retorts the Maitre. “What she can do, we can do. We would not destroy a land and its people from spite and malice. What has Defalk done—ever? We have united peoples and brought peace to a quarter of the world. Defalk’ s lords squabble among them­selves. We have brought trade to all; Defalk not a single ship. Yet this . . . this girl . . . she has no thought but to de­stroy. She does not know what destruction is. But she will learn.”

  “All of us used the pool, ser,” JerClayne stammers. “Stura---­the port, it is buried under deks of glowing rock, and the same for Inylt. Even in the night, there is no darkness. Everything is lit with red light . . .and . . . nothing . . .nothing lives . . .” JerClayne’s voice breaks.

  “What of Trinn?”

  “The western half, the lowlands, they . . . were flooded, and many died. Astaal, the northern and eastern half--- there the volcanoes spewed forth ash and lava, too.”

  “And the sorceress?" The Maitre’s voice is implacable.

  “Her ships sail northward. They did not stop or anchor. They did not even land. They sailed past, and she cast spells.” The younger man shakes his head. “How could she?”

  “She is a sorceress and an evil woman.” The Maitre’s lips tighten. “She is spiteful and malicious. Because she cannot face us in open battle, she destroys men from a distance, and slaughters women and children. She has no honor; She has no decency. All Erde will now see her for what she is.”

  “She also maintains her defense spell. How any---" JerClayne shakes his head. “How could anyone do what she has done? And yet hold a ward?”

  “She does not hold the wards. The younger sorceress does. While she knows less than the shadowsinger, she is well trained and strong.” The Maitre purses his lips, as if consid­ering whether to say more. “They call us cruel and ruthless, jerClayne. Think of it. We are cruel and ruthless, and we have slain but lancers and armsmen and a sorceress, and perhaps a few handfuls of peasants. They have devastated a land near as large as any of their petty countries. They have not conquered it; they have killed everyone there, as surely as if by a blade or a spear. Yet we are cruel.”

  JerClayne waits, receptively. Finally, he asks, “How did there come to be so many sorceresses when a generation ago there were none?"

  “Because the great evil sorceress from the Mist Worlds was fortunate to arrive in Liedwahr when everyone was at everyone else’s throat. First, she was tutored and taught by Lord Brill, who thought to use her as a tool, and instead was used and discarded by her. There were no other sor­cerers in Liedwahr---not trained ones. Lord Robero’s sire perished at the hands of the Evult, and his grandsire the lord Jecks allowed her to live so that his grandson could become Lord of Defalk.”

  “She kept that bargain, did she not?”

  “He had the title, an added set of lands, and the liedstadt and some trappings. She kept the power, and has passed it on to the shadowsinger and the others. The Ladies of the Shadows, Lord Robero, Lord Mynntar---how could they all have been so blind, you ask?” The Maitre laughs. “Because all were desperate for peace, any kind of peace, and she gave them that. Those who did not wish her kind of peace vanished. By illness, by accident, or by some shadowy means that cast no light on her. That is how it happened, and that is why we are here.”

  “Can we defeat the shadowsinger, Maitre?”

  “We can. She cannot use the spells she used in Stura here in Liedwahr. We must remember that victory comes to those who endure. Victories are not won by destroying lands, but by dominating people. There is no victory in ruling a land where nothing lives. We have already undone much of the damage she and her predecessor created. We hold Neserea, and Dumar is ours, as soon as any lancers return. Ebra will fall to a strong wind. We will move to Defalk, and bring it down, and when she returns, bring her down as well.”

  “How shall we begin?" asks the youn
ger Sea-Priest.

  “I must think. And think I will. For now, have the lancers and all our forces ready to ride by the second glass of the morning tomorrow. And have them bring every wagon that they can find in the city, heavily laden with provisions—the kind that will not spoil.”

  "Ah . . . where, Maitre?”

  “You will see. The shadowsinger will see. The Matriarch will see. The bitch traders of Wei will see what the Sea-Priests of Sturinn are made of. All Liedwahr, and all of Erde will see, and feel what we will do.” The. Maitre’s eyes blaze. “Do not ask of details. Be content to know that Stura will be avenged. Be content to know that none will again cross us without knowing that their days are numbered. In time, when, that is clear, the shadowsinger will have to come to us, and when she does she will pay more than she knows can be paid. She will indeed.” His words are as cold as frozen iron.