Shadowsinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Less than two deks from the city?” Secca shook her head. “If no one does greet us, we’ll stop on this side of the river.” There would be no sense in crossing a bridge and then having to fight—if it came to that—with a river at their back.

  “That was also what Wilten felt,” Alcaren said dryly.

  “If you would tell him that we agree with his recommendation…?”

  Alcaren laughed.

  “Have him bring one company of lancers from Loiseau to the fore, and have Overcaptain Delcetta do the same.” Secca felt strange passing the order through Alcaren when Delcetta was riding right behind him, but since that was the way she herself had set up the chain of command, it would have been worse immediately to bypass Alcaren. “Oh…Elfens and the archers as well.”

  Alcaren turned in his saddle, gracefully as always, and said quietly, “If you would, Overcaptain, once we near the bridge?”

  “Yes, ser.” A faint smile played around Delcetta’s lips, one of repressed humor and understanding.

  Alcaren eased his mount forward along the shoulder of the road, back past the vanguard and toward Wilten. After that he rode back to talk to Elfens, whose archers rode behind the players.

  Less than a glass had passed when Secca reined up on the hint of a rise beside the road, perhaps two hundred yards short of the river and the bridge that crossed it. The Envar River was narrow, less than ten yards across, although the darkness of the water suggested that it was several yards deep. The stone span that crossed the river was narrow and ancient, wide enough for but two mounts side by side. The stones, originally reddish, had faded to pink, and the lower levels, just above the water, bore brown and bleached-out green moss, moss that was doubtless under water in spring and early summer, when the river’s water level was higher. The ground around the river and upon each side of the road looked to have been recently cultivated, and the stubble from the previous harvest had been turned under.

  There were more than a score of cottages within a dek of where they had halted, but all were set back from the road, and built upon low stilts, suggesting that the river flooded the flatland. As with all the other farm cottages they had passed, the dwellings and outbuildings were shuttered tight.

  Secca turned in the saddle, looking for Palian, then called, “Have the players get their instruments ready, so that they can play, quickly if necessary.”

  “Yes, lady.” Palian’s smile was knowing, not quite grim.

  Delvor merely nodded.

  “Players dismount!” Palian called. “Dismount and stand ready to play.”

  “Dismount and tune!” echoed Delvor.

  “Gold company to the fore!” ordered Wilten.

  “Second company to the fore!” Delcetta’s voice cut through the hubbub like a stiletto through rotten meat.

  Secca glanced northward across the narrow river. Envaryl presented an odd picture. Dwellings and structures sprouted in groups, seemingly without pattern, except that there were often low hills covered in tan grass and brush between the groupings. A number of the buildings—those whose walls were not plastered—were built of stones of different sizes and colors. On the far side of the river, between the river and the buildings, there was a low hill, or a regular long ridge, covered with the winter-tan grass that grew everywhere in western Dumar and with intermittent brush and trees. A good four yards high, never less than three, nor more than five, the ridge extended east and west of the road, running straight as an iron crossbow quarrel.

  From the saddle of the gray mare, after taking her lutar from its case behind her saddle, Secca tuned it. A half smile flitted across her face as she could see Richina starting to follow her example, but she spoke quickly, if evenly, “I’d rather you not show your lutar, Richina.”

  Richina looked up, startled.

  “I’ll explain later,” Secca said.

  “As you wish, lady.” The younger sorceress frowned.

  Secca knew she’d have more than a little explaining to do. Still holding her own instrument, she studied both the city and the regularity of the ridge. Then she nodded.

  “You’re nodding,” Alcaren said, half-inquiring, as he eased his mount closer to hers.

  “Look at that long straight hill,” she said. “Closely.”

  “There’s a lot of stone under the bushes and trees. The trees aren’t very tall, either.”

  “That was the city wall,” Secca explained. “I’d heard that Anna had turned the city into rubble. I never expected to see it. That’s why the city is the way it is. It’s not as big as when she destroyed it, and those who live there mined the ruins for the stones.”

  “She destroyed the entire city?” asked Alcaren.

  At Alcaren’s question, Richina’s head lifted, as if she had heard for the first time about Anna’s efforts against Envaryl.

  “With one spellsong,” Secca replied. “She said she paid for doing that for years, and in ways she’d never expected…but she never said what they were.” She shifted her weight in the saddle, wondering how long before they received some indication of how to proceed. The scrying mirror had shown that Fehern held the city, and she doubted that could have changed in two glasses, not with the nearest Sturinnese forces still almost fifty deks to the east.

  “He’ll make you wait,” predicted Alcaren, “but not too long.”

  “Because he doesn’t wish to admit he needs us, even though he’ll lose everything without us?” Secca had doubts about what she voiced, but what she felt was better left between her and Alcaren for the moment.

  “Rulers—or Lord High Counselors—don’t like to admit weaknesses.”

  “No one does.” Secca laughed, as much at Alcaren’s dry humor as at the implied suggestion that Sorceress Proctectors didn’t like to admit to weakness, either.

  Secca looked toward the bridge.

  A trumpet sounded, and two squads of lancers appeared, riding out of the city and southward along the road toward the river and bridge—and Secca’s forces. All wore tannish leather riding jackets, open enough so that Secca could see the crimson tunics beneath. The Dumaran lancers reined up a good hundred yards short of the bridge on the northern side.

  After a moment, a single officer rode forward, slowly, across the bridge.

  “Wilten!” Secca called. “If you would greet the Dumaran officer?”

  With a nod, the Defalkan overcaptain also rode forward, but only about thirty yards, where he reined up and waited.

  Once the Dumaran reached Wilten, he reined up as well, and the two officers conversed for a moment. Then, Wilten and the Dumaran overcaptain rode toward Secca, Richina, and Alcaren. Wilten was careful to rein up a good ten yards short of Secca—and give Alcaren a sharp glance, although Secca’s consort had already eased his mount slightly forward and turned the gelding just enough to be able to block any attack on either sorceress.

  “Lady Secca.” The fresh-faced captain bowed in the saddle. “Lord High Counselor Fehern bids you welcome to Dumar and Envaryl and has sent us to escort you to his headquarters.”

  “We are most happy to have reached Envaryl, and look forward to meeting with Lord Fehern,” replied Secca. “You are?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Captain Kuttyr, lady.” The blond officer bowed again.

  “Perhaps you would ride with us, Captain Kuttyr, and so enlighten us,” Secca suggested. “There is much we should know.”

  “I would be most pleased,” replied the Dumaran captain, his eyes involuntarily drifting to the blonde Richina.

  Secca did not replace the lutar in its case as she waited for the players to remount before she rode toward the bridge, following the company of SouthWomen and, then, her own lancers.

  “Have there been many attacks recently by the Sturinnese?” asked Secca, after the column had begun to move forward.

  “No, lady, not since early winter. Lord Fehern and Arms Commander Halyt have reports that the Sturinnese are gathering their forces and may attack within the next few weeks.” Kut
tyr offered an almost roguish smile. “I am not certain I should know that, but all the lancers do.”

  “We will let Lord Fehern tell us what he will,” Secca replied with a smile. “How long have you been a lancer?”

  “Six years, lady. I just made captain last season.” Kuttyr’s smile was definitely for Richina.

  “You must have distinguished yourself,” Richina offered.

  Secca kept her smile to herself and listened.

  “If surviving and keeping too many lancers from being killed unwisely marks distinction,” replied the young captain, “then I distinguished myself.” He shook his head ruefully. “The drums, and the waves of white-coats…all we could do was attack quickly before they could set up the drums and in places where we knew the land and when they did not expect it. We have slain far more of them than they of us.” He laughed, once. “But there are far, far more of them.”

  “They have many lancers,” prompted Richina.

  “An endless number, it would seem. And when they use the drums, their archers never miss. It is hard to fight against both sorcery and arms.” Kuttyr paused and eased his mount back to let Richina and Secca cross the bridge, then crossed with Alcaren.

  “How many companies have you left here in Envaryl?” asked Alcaren.

  “Any answer on my part would be a guess,” replied Kuttyr with a laugh. “Once we had twenty, but that was when we left Dumaria.”

  “Only twenty against fifty or more?” said Richina, turning slightly in the saddle. “That speaks for valor.”

  “You are kind, lady, but valor, alas, does not always bring success.” Kuttyr quickly glanced at Alcaren, as if not wishing to say more about valor. “I note varied livery, Overcaptain, yet yours matches none of them.”

  Most of the force had crossed the narrow stone bridge, Secca and those riding around her had barely passed the grass-covered rubble of the fallen wall when another squad of lancers appeared, only to turn their mounts to form an honor guard of sorts.

  “It does not.” Alcaren smiled, spared a more detailed answer by the arrival of the honor guard.

  “You do honor us, Captain,” Secca said. “Where are we headed?”

  “Lord Fehern has taken one of the older villas on the north side of town as his headquarters,” replied Kuttyr. “We are headed there.”

  Secca continued to hold the lutar in readiness as she rode into the city. She was glad that the rebuilding had left wide spaces, where an ambush would have been more difficult than in most cities, but she continued to study everything.

  So did Alcaren, she noted, and the two exchanged knowing smiles, as Richina went on talking to Kuttyr.

  “How did your forces come to Envaryl?”

  “We had little enough choice, lady.” Kuttyr smiled ruefully. “The Sturinnese moved up the river from Narial, and then sent one body of lancers to the east to block the pass from Stromwer. They used sorcery, it is said, to fill the lower reaches with rock and snow. Then they swept back westward.” He shrugged. “We fought, but we had nowhere to go.”

  Secca did not comment, but made a mental note to check on the passes from Stromwer with her glass when she had time—and privacy.

  “Did the Sturinnese have many archers?”

  “More than we did…”

  For all his words, Kuttyr offered little that Secca had not surmised from the observations she, Richina, and Alcaren had made with their scrying.

  Envaryl appeared the same from inside the fallen wall as it had from without. Even from the central avenue that Kuttyr and his squads led Secca’s force along, the pattern continued—rubbled sections of land covered with grass interspersed with structures built from bricks and stone mined from the ruins. Once Envaryl had been a substantial city. Now, what amounted to a large town was strewn among the ruins.

  Perhaps two-thirds of the way through the town, Kuttyr gestured, even before the leading squad of Dumaran lancers turned. “We will follow the boulevard westward. It is less than a dek from here.”

  Richina had fallen silent, as if she could think of no more questions.

  The villa that stood at the end of the boulevard, flanked by a number of others, was somewhat more than modest, Secca judged, with two wings each of two levels spreading from the entry foyer, and each of those wings close to a hundred yards long. The low wall that enclosed the grounds also contained a number of outbuildings, including a barrackslike structure, and at least one stable of a size able to handle a score of mounts, if not more. The once-white plaster was a pinkish shade from years of red road dust, and the area before the entry circle and the mounting blocks was neither of grass nor gravel, but reddish dirt. The fountain was dry, and looked not to have been used in years.

  As Secca reined up opposite the square arch at the top of four wide brick steps that led to an entry foyer, a trumpet sounded, and nearly a score of figures began to march from the villa, first a half-score of lancers in crimson, then several captains and overcaptains, and then a taller and broader officer, and then Fehern. The Lord High Counselor remained standing on the top brick step, along with the tall officer.

  Secca eased the gray a bit farther ahead, then turned the mare to face the Lord High Counselor. She did not dismount, and she still held the lutar, if more casually. “Lord Fehern, we bring you greetings and aid from Lord Robero of Defalk.”

  Even in the gold-trimmed crimson tunic of the Lord High Counselor of Dumar, Fehern looked more sharp-featured than he had when Secca had seen him in the glass, and his jet-black hair was shot with white, although he could not have been more than a few years older than Secca. Beneath his deep-set and large black eyes were dark pouches.

  Fehern offered a wide smile beneath cold eyes, then bowed very slightly. “Lady Secca, we welcome you, Sorceress Protector of the East. Yet here you are in the South. We could have used one such as you several seasons ago.” With a vague gesture that seemed to encompass the city-town to the east, he added, “Not that we are less pleased that you have made your way here, for it must have been a most trying journey to reach us from the easternmost part of Defalk.”

  Secca returned the Lord High Counselor’s smile with one doubtless as false as his. She tried to choose her words carefully. “It has been a long journey. We left Loiseau in midfall, after harvest, but we hope to be of some assistance in ridding Dumar of the Sturinnese presence.”

  “My overcaptains have noted women lancers in blue and crimson…Surely, they are not of your retinue.” Fehern continued to offer a fixed smile.

  “When word of your brother’s difficulties reached Lord Robero, I was already in Ebra, assisting Lord High Counselor Hadrenn in removing the Sturinnese from his lands. The snows of winter had closed the passes from Defalk to both the south and the east even before we engaged the Sturinnese. By the time we had routed the Sturinnese in Ebra, winter was full upon us. So we made our way to assist you through Ranuak. The SouthWomen’s Council was kind enough to offer the assistance of five companies. We made our way here first, to ensure that Envaryl did not fall.” Secca offered another broad smile.

  “We are most glad that you have.” Fehern coughed, clearing his throat. “You must have had a trying journey, and while we hope to hear of that presently, I will not tariff you more until you are rested and refreshed.” He paused. “Oh…my arms commander, Halyt.” Fehern gestured to the burly, almost rotund bear of a man who stood to his right, a figure over two yards in height.

  “My pleasure,” Secca replied, observing that the man in gray who often appeared in the scrying glass was nowhere visible.

  “The pleasure is mine, Lady Sorceress.” Halyt offered a deep booming laugh. “To have a sorceress coming to our aid is welcome, and to find she is beautiful is indeed a pleasure.”

  “Oh…this is my consort—Overcaptain Alcaren.” Secca nodded to Alcaren. “He represents both the SouthWomen and the Matriarch of Ranuak.”

  “I am pleased to see you, Overcaptain.” Fehern nodded, then said smoothly, “As you can see, Lady
Sorceress, we find ourselves in quarters far smaller than in Dumaria. There is an adjoining villa that Arms Commander Halyt’s men are making ready for you and your forces. I wish that we could offer more, given that you have traveled half of Liedwahr to come to our assistance…”

  “After open roads and barns and cottages, a villa would be most welcome.” Secca paused. “There are buildings where our lancers can quarter themselves?”

  “But of course.” Fehern smiled. “Once you are settled and refreshed, I would hope you would join us for the evening meal here, that is, you and your consort and overcaptains…and your lovely…assistant.”

  “Alcaren and the overcaptains and Richina and I would be most happy to join you. Also, my chief players.”

  “They are most welcome, as well. At the ninth glass?”

  “We will be here.”

  “Captain Kuttyr will escort you, and see that you have whatever is in our poor power to supply you.” With another nod and a polite smile, Fehern suggested that the first meeting was over.

  “We appreciate the hospitality, and we will convey your welcome to Lord Robero.” Secca returned Fehern’s nod with one equally slight and polite. “And we will enjoy dining with you this evening.”

  As she and Alcaren followed Kuttyr and his squad down the open lane to the south, toward a structure and set of outbuildings only slightly less extensive than those occupied by Fehern, Secca wondered exactly what the dinner ahead would reveal.

  23

  Envaryl, Dumar

  Fehern paces from the massive marble hearth that contains but embers and ashes to the built-in bookcases on the north wall, where he turns and pauses, fixing his eyes on Halyt. “Did you note that overcaptain who is also the sorceress’s consort did not wear the same uniform as the SouthWomen? Or the green of the Defalkan lancers?”

  “Ah…Lord…the green is not of Defalk. Those are the sorceress’s personal lancers, most loyal to her.”

  Fehern shakes his head. “Four companies, and they are hers. Five others, and they are SouthWomen. Not a single company from Lord Robero, and yet she comes in his name?”