Shadow Magic

by Patricia C. Wrede

  The Shee worked their way methodically through the camp, hampered very little by the clouds of smoke rising from the tents. They were followed closely by the city troops, who had vanquished the Lithmern in the rear and were looking for more. Bracor, well aware of the effect that the sudden appearance of the legendary Shee might have on even a well-trained veteran, had warned his men that “the Lady Isme’s countrymen” were coming to aid the city. The soldiers were, therefore, somewhat prepared for the Shee.

  The Wyrds were another matter. They were clearly not human; they might well be the demons the Lithmern seemed to think them. On the other hand, they were equally clearly killing Lithmern. Even so, the Brenn troops were somewhat unnerved by the presence of the small, fierce, furry beings. By the time Bracor, Herre, and Grathwol met in the middle of the Lithmern camp, more than one of the city soldiers was beginning to wonder, now that the heat of the battle was passing, just what kind of a war it was they were fighting.

  The first round of fighting was over and the work of taking prisoners done when Maurin ran into Har. “What luck?” the young noble shouted when Maurin was within hailing distance.

  “Fair,” replied Maurin as he rode up. “Which means, I am not dead, so I cannot complain too loudly of my fortune. Yourself?”

  “Two of them came at me with those staffs a bit ago; a Wyrd arrow got one or I wouldn’t be here,” Har answered grimly. “As it is, not a scratch. Where away?”

  “Herre and Bracor have decided they want some Lithmern to question. I’m to pick out the ones that look most likely to know something.” Maurin frowned. “Most of the officers seem to have disappeared, and there is no trace at all of the sorcerers; I’d almost be willing to swear there were never any here.”

  “I don’t know about sorcerers,” Har said. “I can find you an officer, though, if you hurry. I just passed some Shee with one tied to a horse; they were over that way.”

  “Many thanks,” Maurin replied wearily, and with a wave he rode off in the direction Har had indicated.

  Isme was alone in the tower room when Bracor returned to Styr Tel and found her. She stood looking out over the recent battlefield with her back to the door. Bracor waited until she turned.

  “No, it does not disturb me to see them again,” Isme said before her husband could speak. She smiled. “Nor have I any desire to return to Eveleth. Does that content you?”

  Bracor shook his head. “Sometimes I think you know my thoughts before I do.”

  “After twenty-four years, how should I not?”

  “And you will not be uncomfortable, attending the feast tonight?”

  “No. I am glad the Shee have come, and the Wyrds as well,” Isme said. “Aside from the fact that they have sheltered my daughter and saved my city, it will be good to talk again to those who understand magic.”

  Bracor looked up quickly. “You have missed it, then.”

  “Magic? Of course I have missed it.”

  “I—” Bracor stopped. “I wish you had told me.”

  “It has not been so hard as you seem to think,” Isme said gently. “I knew what to expect when I ran away with you. And it is not as if I have had no chance at all to practice.”

  Bracor blinked, considerably startled.

  “There are any number of small spells that are useful in running a household,” Isme said, smiling. “And there are reasons why the healers’ houses in Brenn are regarded so highly. I am no Neira, but I have some skills.”

  Bracor nodded, but he was watching Isme closely. After a moment, he looked away. “I have spoken with Herre. There seems to be no reason why you cannot visit Eveleth again, if you wish it,” he said carefully.

  Isme shrugged. “I doubt that I would find Eveleth any more interesting than I did when I was young.”

  “You are certain?” Bracor asked, relief undisguised in his voice.

  “The life of a Ward-Keeper suited me far better than Eveleth, even before you fell down the steps into my garden,” his wife replied with a soft look in her slanted eyes. “I do not pine for Eveleth, and I have harbored no regrets.”

  “I am glad you feel that way,” Bracor said quietly.

  Isme smiled, and took his hand in hers.

  The feast that night was one to rival the legends of the High King’s table. The siege had not been lengthy enough to seriously reduce the city’s provisions, and food was plentiful, but what made the feast truly unforgettable was the presence of the Wyrds and the Shee at the same table as the nobles of Alkyra.

  At the end of the dinner, the weary architects of the day’s victory retired to a large room on the third floor of Styr Tel to discuss the events of the day. Sounds of revelry drifted up to the open windows, in sharp contrast to the formality of the company assembled there.

  At the head of the long table Bracor sat with the Lady Isme, both wearing the wine-red colors of the House Tel’anh. On their right were Herre, in the full purple robes of a Lord Advisor, and the Shee general and two of his aides, imposing in the black and silver uniform of Iniscara’s guards. Across from the Shee were the Alkyran Lords, Armin and Gahlon wearing the colors of their houses. Har, Maurin, and Jordet, also in formal dress, sat around the foot of the table. Only Grathwol and Murn looked at all like their usual selves; the Wyrds had put away their bows and quivers for the meeting, but that was all.

  “I think we may begin,” Bracor said when everyone was assembled. “First, I must thank you again for your aid. It was successful beyond expectation.”

  “Beyond expectation, indeed,” muttered Armin with an uneasy look at the Shee.

  Herre smiled politely. “And I thank you for your welcome,” he said formally. He paused. “I hope we might count on your assistance were we in similar straits, and the Queen agrees.”

  A sudden silence fell, brittle as glass. The Shee commander had just proposed a formal alliance between Eveleth and Brenn, and all eyes turned to Bracor for his response to the unexpected proposal.

  “I appreciate your offer,” Bracor said at last. “But I do not know if I can accept it, much as I would like to.” A murmur passed through the Shee, and Bracor raised a hand. “Let me explain.

  “Brenn is not a free city, but part of Alkyra, subject to the Conclave of First Lords and the Regent of Alkyra. I cannot speak for the Regent or the Conclave, and I cannot make a compact outside of our land without their approval. To do so were treason. Yet such an alliance would indeed be of benefit to both our peoples. I do not know,” Bracor finished, a troubled look on his face. “I do not know.”

  “The Conclave be hanged!” exploded Armin. “What help have they given us against the Lithmern?”

  “Little enough, ’tis true,” Bracor replied. “But…”

  “There can be no ‘buts,’” Armin said emphatically. “Will you let the Lithmern destroy your city and us with you while the Conclave considers?”

  “Armin is right,” Gahlon said quietly. “No matter what your arguments, the First Lords will not approve this alliance. And without it, Alkyra will fall.”

  “What!” said several voices together. Isme leaned forward as the stir subsided. “Perhaps you could explain further, Lord Gahlon,” she said calmly. “I confess, I do not see why the nobles should not agree, nor why Alkyra must inevitably fall if they do not.”

  “Forgive my bluntness,” said Gahlon. “But it is no less than the truth. Alkyra is disintegrating. In a few more years the Regent will be totally powerless, and the last thread holding the nobles together will vanish. The country will become a hundred free cities, each warring with the others to claim as much territory as possible, while twenty nobles try to establish their right to the throne by force of arms. Already the Conclave is little more than a watchdog to keep any of the nobles from growing more powerful than his neighbors.”

  “But the Lithmern threaten us all!” Har burst out. “Surely they can see that!”

  Gahlon shook his head gloomily. “I fear not. What they will see is that this compact provides Brenn w
ith formidable allies, who could easily overcome any of them. I think they will even choose to believe that the Lithmern do not plan to invade, at least until the army is at their door. Then, of course, it will be too late.”

  Bracor’s face was drawn. “It seems that either way I choose, we cannot win. If I do not accept this alliance, the Lithmern will overrun us when they return. Yet if I accept, it seems likely to throw all Alkyra into war out of fear that I am grown too powerful.”

  Gahlon nodded. “That is the way of it.”

  There was a silence. Then Isme spoke again. “Yet folly may be reasoned with; the Lithmern never.”

  “True.” Bracor turned to Herre in sudden decision. “I accept the alliance then; may Kirel’s spirit watch over us all.”

  “I, too, have such a proposal to make,” said Grathwol. His eyes glinted in the candlelight. “I think you will not refuse, having accepted Lord Advisor Herre.”

  “You are correct,” Bracor said. He rose and bowed to Herre and Grathwol in turn. “I am grateful for your support. What Gahlon says is true, and, alone, Brenn could not hope to stand for long against the Lithmern.”

  “Not quite alone; I also will support you, certainly,” Gahlon said.

  “And I,” Armin added roughly.

  Bracor nodded gravely to the two lords. “Are there no others who might be persuaded?”

  Armin gave a bark of laughter. “Those close enough to fear the threat of Lithmern, perhaps. No more.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Gahlon offered. “I think there are some who would join us. You will be too much involved here to travel, and there are lords who trust me well enough to at least listen to what I will say.”

  Armin looked skeptical, but Bracor’s anxious expression lightened. “Thank you again,” he said. “Now, let us work out more details of these alliances. How much of your strength can you commit?”

  For the next hour the talk was of the compacts to be signed among the three Alkyran nobles, the Wyrwood, and Sheleran. Herre had been given sweeping powers by Queen Iniscara, and Grathwol was regarded as unofficial head of the loose alliance of Wyrd Glens, so both could speak with some assurance that their promises would be kept, and a framework for the alliance was quickly established.

  The planning was interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the Shee soldiers entered and bowed politely. “Sirs, the Wizard Rialla has finished with the Lithmern prisoners and requests admittance.”

  “Bring her in,” Bracor said. Rialla entered the room in a swirl of blue robes. The Crown of the Veldatha shone briefly on her forehead as she nodded and took a seat on Herre’s right.

  “I am sorry to have taken so long,” Rialla said. “There have been difficulties.”

  “Indeed?” said Herre. “Of what sort?”

  Rialla bit her lip. “The Lithmern officers are ensorcelled,” she answered. “The soldiers know nothing worthwhile, though they have confirmed some of our guesses. But the officers…” Her voice trailed off.

  The Shee general on her left frowned heavily. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Surely your truthtrance can overcome any spells the Lithmern may have. Why, Illeana managed to free that young Lithmern from a Shadow-born with only the Ward-Keeper’s help, and you have three Veldatha to assist you!”

  The Shee woman rounded on him, and it became evident that under her calm facade she was near to hysteria. “The spell that guards them destroys their minds, general!” she hissed. “Four times have we tried truthtrance, and four men now lie below with no more wits than a drooling babe! Try your own hand at it if you will, but do not ask me to try again; I have no stomach for it!”

  Chapter 17

  THERE WAS A MOMENT of horrified silence. Rialla lowered her head and hid her face in her hands; the Shee general stared ahead unseeingly. Finally Bracor broke the silence.

  “What information have you managed to obtain, then?” he asked as gently as he could.

  Rialla straightened and took a deep breath. Pulling herself together, she replied, “Little enough. The common soldiers are our only source thus far, and they know nothing of the Shadow-born, only a few rumors that their king has enlisted the aid of some magicians of great power from far lands. They were told that they would attack Brenn, and that some would march northeast to meet the main army once the city had fallen.”

  “Northeast!” exclaimed Murn. “But that is the middle of the Wyrwood.”

  “Yes,” replied Rialla. “They have misunderstood, or been deliberately misled, so I can advise little trust in their claims.”

  “Why not?” asked Maurin.

  “Because the Lithmern army cannot get into the Wyrwood without passing Brenn,” Rialla replied patiently. “They cannot pass Brenn unless the city has fallen, so it makes no sense for the two parts of the army to meet there. I think perhaps the soldiers have mixed their directions; it is more likely that they should go northwest to meet the rest of their forces.”

  “How many of them did you question?” Maurin said.

  “Four or five,” said Rialla with a frown. “Why?”

  “And did they all say the same?”

  “Yes,” said Rialla. “What is the point of that?”

  “There is a way into the Wyrwood from the west,” Maurin said.

  “You know more than those who live there, of course,” the Shee general said sarcastically.

  The Wyrds exchanged glances, and Grathwol said, “Many things are possible. I would hear what he has to say.”

  “Thank you,” Maurin said. He looked around the table. “There is, or was, a pass through the mountains to the north of Brenn. It was used by occasional Traders in the days when there was commerce between men and the Shee, which is how I know of it. The Lithmern may plan to use it.”

  The Shee general snorted his disbelief, but Grathwol looked thoughtful. “Coldwell Pass—I have heard of it. But was it not blocked long ago? And would the Lithmern know of it?”

  “I do not know whether it was blocked,” Maurin said. “But it may have been cleared since then. How else could the Lithmern have intended to take Alethia to Mog Ograth?”

  The Wyrd nodded thoughtfully and relapsed into silence. Bracor looked at Rialla. “This puts a more serious light on your information. Are there any more details than you have told us already?”

  “The armies were to meet in another month,” Rialla said. “The soldiers found it strange that their leaders looked for the city to fall within so short a time, but speculation is frowned upon in the Lithmern army.”

  “Obviously they expected to bring the Shadow-born to take Brenn,” Herre said. “The troops were to soften the city up first, and to occupy it once it had fallen.”

  “Unless Alethia’s escape forced the Lithmern to move up their attack,” said Maurin.

  “That is possible,” Herre said, considering.

  “Why, it is more than possible, it is likely!” broke in one of the General’s aides. “Drashek is the Lithmern city closest to Alkyra, and it is five days travel from Drashek to Brenn. Five days after Alethia met the Wyrds, Brenn was attacked. What other reason could there be?”

  “What will they do now, do you think?” Bracor inquired.

  “With this part of their army gone, the Lithmern will have to bring the rest from the west,” Herre said. “They will have other problems as well; I think the Lithmern sorcerers will soon lose control over the Shadow-born, if indeed they have not already done so. The Shadow-born will take time to make sure of their hold on Lithra and to come to stronger power, and then they will come back to attack Alkyra.”

  “How long?” said Gahlon voicing the question in everyone’s mind.

  “I can only guess,” said Herre. “But soon; a month, perhaps two.”

  “This time we shall be prepared!” Armin said. “When they reach Brenn they will find more waiting than they expect.”

  “Why wait for them to reach Brenn?” asked Maurin.

  Silence greeted this unexpected comment. Then Bracor leane
d forward, his eyes alight. “Coldwell Pass?” he asked. Maurin nodded, and Bracor sat back and laughed. “Of course! It is the last thing they will expect; with luck we may do them great damage, and at the worst we can retreat and try to hold them elsewhere.”

  The others looked puzzled, and Bracor laughed again. “You explain,” he said to Maurin. “You thought of it first.”

  Maurin nodded. “It will be easier if we have a map, I think,” he said. Bracor produced one, and Maurin spread it out on the table. “See, Lithra is north and west, and the mountains curve down to Brenn. If their army marches from Mog Ograth, they will almost certainly head for Drashek, to resupply there. And from Drashek, the route to Brenn is…” His finger traced the curve of the mountains, and stopped.

  “Coldwell Pass should be right about here,” the Trader went on. “If we march north to meet them, we can surprise them, provided we time it right.”

  “It may work,” Har said.

  “We haven’t decided yet that we will try this,” Bracor cautioned. “The hour grows late; I suggest we return to this matter in the morning.”

  There were murmurs of agreement, and the Lord of Brenn turned to Rialla. “If I may ask your aid, lady, I would request that you question the common soldiers to try and confirm the theories you have heard.”

  Rialla simply nodded.

  “Then, by your leave my lords, I would end this meeting until tomorrow.”

  Heads nodded in agreement, but it was not so simple to put an end to the discussion, and it was some while before the room was emptied. The military men lingered to discuss Maurin’s proposal and to put forward theories of their own as to the Lithmern army’s probable movements.

  The following day, Har and Maurin found themselves with the unenviable task of selecting possible messengers and preparing them for their respective journeys. The assembled heads of the Wyrds, the Shee, and the army of Brenn had decided that there was too little time for Gahlon to visit each of the Alkyran nobles individually, and so a team of messengers consisting of one of each race was to be sent instead. It took most of the day to find sixty men, Wyrds, and Shee who were acceptable to everyone and also willing to carry such potentially explosive news to the lords of Alkyra, but by late that evening the messengers were on their way.