Shadowsinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Behind him, some of the lancers in the six companies that follow are less able to control their visceral reactions.

  As Belmar and jerGlien pass the last of the corpses, the Lord of Worlan turns in the saddle, although he does not look directly at the Sturinnese in gray. “I cannot believe she could destroy ten companies of lancers spread out across a dek.”

  “They are fearsome enemies, Lord Belmar,” replies jerGlien. “Had this one been granted even five companies of lancers, you would have had far greater difficulties. Even though she did not know you were on the far rise, or that you had the drums, she sang four spells for your one, and you had great difficulty.”

  “Such difficulties…” Belmar pauses, before his eyes narrow. “You were riding behind them, and you were unscathed. How did such occur?”

  With a shrug, jerGlien replies, “You can see the marks of sorcery-fire on the vegetation and upon the road. It only carries so far. I was fortunate to have been somewhat farther away.”

  “You are always fortunate to be just far enough from adverse circumstances.”

  “It is perchance my one talent.” The Sturinnese adds smoothly, “You are most fortunate as well. Were you fighting the Sorceress Protector of the East, who can muster far more lancers, and who has an assistant accompanying her, you might well still be fighting—or even retreating. That is far greater fortune than my small ability to avoid being too close to a distracted sorceress.”

  “You think so?”

  “You need only look to the south.” The voice of the man in gray bears a wry tone.

  “Oh…I do not yet hold my own land, and you would have me look southward?” Belmar shakes his head.

  “Once you have Neserea well in hand, the Sorceress Protector of the East must be destroyed. That is, if you and your heirs wish to hold Neserea.”

  “Not Lord Robero?”

  “He is a weakling. Without his sorceresses, you could make him your vassal, and he would thank you for letting him hold on to his lands and title. Now, he may be even easier to persuade to accept a change in rule in Neserea.”

  “He may, but there are three other sorceresses.”

  The man in gray laughs. “Still…you do not see. So I must tell you. There was the Sorceress of Defalk, and she was like unto the sorceresses of old. She was indeed powerful, as you have seen, but she would not surrender her power to have heirs of her body. Nor did she wish to work with others, and she would not ask others to work with her, and without asking, none would follow her. Even had she lived, few would have listened as she aged, and all will remember her but for a few score years, and she will have changed nothing.”

  “Except for those whom she killed,” replies Belmar sardonically.

  Ignoring the interjection, jerGlien continues, “Then there is the assistant sorceress, and she uses men as men oft use women. Excepting for her gender, she and her use of sorcery are little different from our own sorcerers, save she has no honor, and as a woman prostituting the harmonies, that makes her an abomination and an aberration. In Sturinn, we would make sure she could do little but bear sons. As her own mistress in Defalk, she will have few children, if any, and those she may have will not follow her.”

  Belmar nods, continuing to listen.

  “The third sorceress—the one who assists the Sorceress Protector of the East—she is powerful, but as yet unformed, and unable to stand against us by herself. That leaves the Sorceress Protector of the East. She has the knowledge of the great sorceress, and, if she lives, will take the overcaptain from Ranuak as her consort, if she has not already done so, for he is a cousin or some such of the Matriarch. She will have heirs, and already many look to her and follow her. She will turn all Liedwahr in the direction of the Ranuan bitches, and Lord Robero will let her do so, for he cannot stand against her. Indeed, no man in Liedwahr, save you, Lord Belmar, can stand against her.”

  Belmar fingers his chin with his right hand, the one that does not hold the reins. “This one here, that you say is not so powerful as the younger…she even destroyed my seal ring. That had been my grandsire’s. Now it is a lump of melted brass.”

  “You see why I suggested your lancers all see the destruction and death that she wrought?” asks jerGlien mildly.

  “That is obvious,” Belmar replies. “So that they can observe how evil the sorceresses are, and how little regard they have for a man’s life.”

  “A man’s life,” says jerGlien with a laugh. “Well put.”

  “They would turn us all into children.”

  “As in Ranuak or that so-called Free City. Even in the Ostisles, Sturinn did not behave so terribly.”

  “That may be, master jerGlien,” Belmar replies, “but I would prefer Sturinn far better as ally than as master. I also prefer the Maitre to continue to remain in Sturinn and rule his demesnes and allow me to rule mine.”

  “The Maitre has never remained just in Sturinn, Lord Belmar. None know where he may appear. That is one of his strengths.” A laugh follows. “As for you and Neserea, have we done aught but supply you with golds, arms, and training? Have you seen a single armsman or lancer in Neserea?”

  “That I have not, although I would not wager on that.” Belmar laughs. “There are no large forces from Sturinn within Neserea. I do know such.”

  After they have ridden a time, the Sturinnese adds, “You will have some desertions tonight, as well.”

  “And I should let them go?”

  “The lancers who remain will be fiercer in battle, should it come to that.”

  “It will come to that, will it not, master jerGlien?”

  The Sturinnese shrugs, easily. “You will not have to fight any others from Neserea.”

  “Just the lancers of the Liedfuhr and the other sorceresses of Defalk.” Belmar straightens in the saddle, looking westward along the road that leads to Esaria.

  “The Liedfuhr…one cannot tell. He will not hazard his lancers, much as he is fond of his sister, for a lost cause.”

  “So…if I can slay the Lady Counselor and her mother and her sister and the consort from Dumar, he will not invade Neserea.”

  “He may not, if you can act before the snows melt in the Mittpass.” Another shrug follows jerGlien’s words. “Then, he may. It matters not. He has no sorcerers. You have the power to destroy his lancers, and if you do, then none can contest you. Except, of course, the Sorceress Protector of the East.”

  “You do not care for this Sorceress Protector.”

  “It matters little what I care. You will do as you will, and so will she. I merely offer you my advice.”

  “And golds and arms from the Maitre, when he sees fit.” Belmar laughs. “He should see fit now, for another sorceress is dead.”

  “Oh, I have no doubts you will be richly rewarded for this, Lord Belmar. No doubts at all, and that is how it should be.”

  “And so will you, for you have helped me, and that has aided Sturinn’s cause, else you would not be here.”

  “You are most perceptive, Lord Belmar. As always.”

  Belmar looks westward once more, toward Esaria.

  44

  Under the late-morning sun, Secca had unfastened her jacket, so warm had the day become. She was trying to work on harmonies with Richina and Alcaren as they rode up over the hills, and that was work as well, and contributed to her getting warmer and warmer, although some of the heat was from the sun, enough that she could smell the earth warming. The three rode close together, but the trail was so narrow that Richina and Secca were side by side, with Alcaren trailing close behind.

  “Just sing ‘la’ for every syllable,” Secca said, mostly to remind Alcaren, since Secca and Anna had worked such exercises with Richina for several years. “On my mark…Mark!”

  “La, la, la…”

  Halfway through what was supposed to have been the first stanza of the third building song, Secca said, “Stop!” She looked to Richina. “You’re singing what I do. It won’t harm the spell, but it won’t be as stro
ng.”

  “I know you have said it is not so, but it seems so odd,” replied the sandy-blonde sorceress, easing herself into a different position in the saddle. “It would seem stronger if we sang the same notes.”

  Secca shook her head. “We do…on the last part of each stanza. That is where we come together. Think of it as…” she frowned. “The music has more depth. Anna would have called it color. Depth and color make it stronger.”

  “But…if you spin threads together, they are stronger, and they are all alike,” replied Richina.

  “The different parts support different things…like the braces for a causeway…or a bridge,” Secca responded.

  “If you say so, Lady “Secca.” Richina’s tone remained polite, but dubious.

  Secca wanted to yell at the younger sorceress, but swallowed the feeling, and mentally tried to figure out another way of explaining. After a moment, she spoke. “You know, when the second players join in a spell, they do not play the same as the first do?”

  “They play chords,” Richina admitted.

  “If you listen to the chords—closely,” Secca went on, “they often have a different sound. Yet, when they play so, the spellsongs we sing are more powerful. What they do with the accompaniment is what we must do with the spellsong.”

  Richina nodded, too politely for Secca.

  “It is like blades, then,” offered Alcaren, from where he rode slightly behind the two women. “A sabre must have more than just iron in it. Even a bronze platter is harder than one made of pure copper. Sometimes, something that is all of a kind is weaker than something having different substances.”

  Secca wouldn’t have thought of blades, but the analogy was mostly correct. “That’s right. We’re forging a stronger kind of spellsong.”

  This time, Richina’s nod seemed to encompass understanding.

  “That’s why you need to sing the line below mine,” Secca repeated. “You are not singing to support me or Alcaren. We are all singing to weld together a powerful spell.”

  Secca just hoped that they would be able to work out the three-part arrangement. While failure of the spell would not be as deadly as failure in a conventional battle, since they would be trying it from much farther away, her feelings kept telling her that she had far less time than it would seem. Clayre’s defeat and death reinforced that sense of urgency, yet even Alcaren did not seem to understand fully her concerns about time.

  But then, she told herself, she might not be reading her consort’s feelings, since he kept so much hidden, and, to be fair, she had not had a chance to talk to him fully in a place where she felt comfortable explaining how she felt.

  “Now…can we try it again?” Secca asked.

  Alcaren and Richina both nodded.

  45

  Standing before the bare-limbed oak, a tree that had yet to show the buds that would herald spring, Secca glanced from the hilltop to the distant road, shading her eyes against the sun as she studied the ravine a dek or so west and below the hilltop, and the angled lower ridge farther to the southwest. The line of silver that was the Envar River was nearly six deks from the hilltop. In the distance, she could see what looked to be a cloud of dust rising from the river road.

  A brief gust of wind swirled around her, a mixture of warm and cold air, but one hinting more at the spring to come than the winter past, with the scent of moisture and a hint of some early-spring flower, although Secca had seen none on the ride through the hills, even in the low bushes on the sunny side of the windbreaking line of firs a dek downhill and to the west.

  “They are within two deks of where they must be for us to begin the spellsong.” Secca turned to her right, looking to where Palian and Delvor stood before the arrayed players. “A half a glass, I would judge.”

  “We stand ready,” replied the gray-eyed and gray-haired chief of the first players.

  Secca turned back to Alcaren and Richina. “Have you the spell words firmly in mind?”

  “Yes, lady,” replied Richina.

  Alcaren nodded. His eyes were dark, and Secca understood why. Richina was preoccupied with the task to come, too young too understand what using the spell meant, and where it well might lead.

  “How close must they come?” asked Alcaren in a low voice.

  “I do not know,” Secca admitted. “When I sang the spell alone, the one against the archers, the effects reached four deks. Anna once sang a spell alone with players that reached more than ten deks. I can but hope that by holding the hillside, and with us singing together, that we can reach the six deks or so from here to where the road passes the closest.” She offered a crooked smile. “If we fail, they cannot pursue us directly, not over the ravines and broken ground.”

  “If we fail badly enough,” he said with a laugh, “they will never know we attempted such.” The forced smile faded. “You worry more about success.”

  “I do.” She paused. “If this works, we need to think about warding spells, ones that will wake or protect us if sorcery is being tried against us.”

  “You think we are being watched in a glass?”

  “If not already…soon. And if we can strike from a distance with spells, we can be struck from a distance.”

  Richina turned. “They are not so strong as you, lady.”

  Secca laughed, mirthlessly. “I appreciate your feelings, Richina, but…they do not have to be so strong. Anna was attacked in Dumar by a hidden Sea-Priest with a pair of enchanted javelins. There are many more sorcerers among the Sea-Priests than in all the other lands of Liedwahr. What we do, sooner or later they will try.”

  “Unless you vanquish them all,” Richina said.

  “And then what?” asked Secca.

  Richina’s brow wrinkled into a puzzled frown.

  “If we destroy all the Sea-Priest sorcerers in Liedwahr, what will the Maitre do? Leave us alone forever? Or just for a few years?” pursued Secca.

  “The Sea-Priests left us alone for a score of years.” Richina finally replied.

  “So we must fight them every score of years? Or should I follow their example, and try to destroy them in their own land? And how am I different from them in that instance?”

  “You did not start this war or the last,” replied Alcaren bluntly. “You sorceresses have only asked that women be treated as equals. The old lords, the Prophet of Music, and the Sturinnese cannot accept that. You can change the old lords in Defalk…and without the meddling of the Sea-Priests, you can change Neserea—but you will never change Sturinn. It is a land that has enslaved and chained its women since before the Pelaran Devastation, and killed or silenced any woman of strength for endless generations.”

  Secca sighed almost silently. “We don’t have to face those questions now. We have to worry about one spell.” Yet…will it come to that? She pushed the thought away and looked to her right, where the players had finished running through a warm-up tune.

  “When you are ready, Lady Secca,” Palian said quietly.

  “It will not be long.”

  Secca concentrated on the images she intended to use, knowing that her visualization had to be clear and precise, although she had told Alcaren and Richina to concentrate on words and melody, and to leave the imagery to her.

  “The main body of the Sturinnese is nearing the bend in the road,” called Delcetta from the southern end of the ridge.

  “Players, stand ready!” ordered Palian.

  Secca glanced from Alcaren to Richina. Both nodded in response.

  After looking to the southwest, to confirm as best she could Delcetta’s report, Secca cleared her throat, then declared, “At your mark, chief player!”

  “At my mark…Mark!”

  The first bar was only the first players, followed by Delvor’s second players. Secca and the other two joined on the third bar, and the spellsong rose from the hillside into the clear sky.

  “Clouds to form and winds to rise

  like a caldron in darkening skies.

  Build a stor
m with winds of ice and heat

  that scythes all Sturinn’s men like ripened wheat…”

  Even before the end of the first stanza, hazy clouds had begun to form, and the light breeze out of the north had strengthened into a solid and stiff wind that pressed against Secca’s back and simultaneously carried the spellsong and accompaniment toward the distant Sturinnese force.

  A quick breath was all that Secca managed before launching into the second stanza. She concentrated on keeping a clear image of the dark funnel cloud sweeping along the road, sparing none of the Sturinnese force, especially the Sea-Priest sorcerers and drummers.

  Beside her, Alcaren’s voice held true, strong but supporting, while Richina’s provided almost a counterpoint.

  “Clouds to boil and storms to bubble

  crush to broken sticks of wind-strewn rubble

  all in Sturinn’s service or in Sea-Priest white

  and let none escape the whirlwind’s might…”

  With the last words of the spell, and the deep, not-quite-dull chime of the harmonies that rolled through her, indeed through all nearby who could sense them, Secca looked toward the southwest and the road that held the Sturinnese force. The skies above the river and the road had turned almost black, yet the higher clouds were nearly perfect white—but Secca could see them only for a few moments before the lower and blacker clouds thickened and covered the entire sky, turning the afternoon into twilight.

  Her arms felt stiff, and exhaustion had dropped across her like a heavy wet blanket. The exertion of the spell had left her momentarily hot and damp all over, but that lasted only for moments, and she shivered in the rapidly chilling air. Her head ached, and her eyes watered, blurring with the flash of daystars.

  The stiff breeze had become a whining, roaring torrent of air, pushing Secca toward the steeper downhill slope before her, with such force that she staggered to hold her balance, before dropping to her knees in the damp and flattened grass. With the gale came snow that whipped around Secca, chill and beadlike. Then, ice pellets began to fall, flaying her back and shoulders.