“Better you had killed me.”
“The Harmonies have a use for you.”
“What? In more than a score and a quarter years, I have not seen such.”
“Be patient.”
“You came to tell me that?”
“No…I came to tell you that you are to be one of my personal guard chiefs. As you said, you are skilled with a blade, and I will give you leave to use two or three spells to protect me, as and if necessary.”
“You are more accomplished than I, Matriarch.”
“The times are changing, and I fear that the demands of being the Matriarch will mean that I can no longer be as watchful of myself as before.”
“The Sturinnese will maintain their blockade?” A glimmer of interest appears in the gray-blue eyes.
“More ships have left Sturinn, and they carry far more armsmen and lancers, and those of ours in the harbor are not armed to take the fight to those already arrayed to the south.”
“And you trust in the Harmonies?”
“Not totally.” Alya smiles. “Best you gather your belongings. I have a carriage.” After a pause, she adds, “Do not forget the rose. You may need it.” She turns.
Alcaren glances from the departing Matriarch to the rose, frowning, then slips the lumand into its boiled leather case. After a long moment, he lifts the rose.
33
The day before, snow had blown out of the west, in sheets thrown almost horizontally by a wind so fierce and cold that Secca’s back had been numb for deks. The sky had been clear that morning, with no sign of a storm, not even a wind, when the column had begun the ride through the Sand Pass to reach the eastern side of the Ostfels—and Ebra.
They had found some shelter in a waystation, and waited out the storm through the night.
Now, on the morrow, as they rode eastward toward Ebra, the sky remained gray, although the snow had stopped, and the wind had died away. Secca glanced over her shoulder, but the bulk of the Ostfels and the eastern end of the Sand Pass lay shrouded in clouds, perhaps five deks behind the end of the column of riders. On the left side of the narrow road—half the width of that in Defalk, but still paved—were grasslands, seemingly like those around Mencha, if covered with a thin layer of the heavy snow.
By contrast, perhaps five deks to the south lay a long beige ridge of sand untouched by the snow—the westernmost part of the Sand Hills. The air above the dunes was filled with a shifting fog from the snow that had fallen and immediately melted.
As she studied the Sand Hills, Secca shivered inside her leather riding jacket. Supposedly, more than a generation before, the sand had blocked both ends of the Sand Pass, so much so that it had spilled out of the pass above the Sand Pass fort, and isolated Ebra from Defalk. The sand had remained until the dark Evult had shifted the dunes so that he could move his Dark Monks into Defalk and begin his conquest of the rest of Liedwahr. Then Anna had arrived, and everything had changed.
Secca frowned. Someday, would the sands shift again? There were stories about how the Sand Hills had been created by ancient Spell-Fire Wars between Ranuak and the vanished Mynyan lords, but legends only—not one word in any book she had ever seen.
She dropped back to ride beside Palian and Delvor. “How are the players doing?”
“Since none have embarked on such before, save the two of us,” Palian said with a crooked smile, “they still listen when we say that they are fortunate.”
“They do not believe us,” Delvor added, “but they listen.”
The three laughed.
“Was it this bad with Lady Anna?” Secca asked.
The two exchanged glances. Finally, Palian spoke. “It was far worse in Dumar, for the rain never seemed to stop from the time we entered the land until we passed the Falche. In Ebra…the weather was better.”
“But not the battles,” offered Delvor. “Bertmynn had thunder-drums, and the sorceress knew it not. We lost many in the first encounter, and I thought I would not walk again, so exhausted was I.”
Secca nodded somberly. That was a side she had not heard…or perhaps not listened to when it had been told. “We have spells for thunder-drums, and for other possibilities.”
“It will be different when you go into battle, lady. Let what you have learned sing for you,” said Palian, not unkindly.
Left unspoken was the reminder that Anna had been older and wiser, and fought battles in two worlds.
After a nod to the two players, Secca urged the gray mare forward, past Richina and up beside Wilten. “How are the men doing?
“Cold and wet, and muttering under their breath, as have lancers ever.” Wilten also offered an off-center smile. “This was an early storm. It passed quickly, and they will forget.”
“I used the glass to check the road, and there are no lancers or armsmen ahead.” Secca paused. “The stone paving ends only a few deks ahead. The road does not look muddy, but…”
“After four companies of lancers pass, it will become so, and doubtless the local peasants will call down dissonance upon us.”
“So long as none use sorcery, we’ll be fine.”
“Aye…”
Secca’s eyes drifted to the left, at the fog-veiled Sand Hills, then back to the road ahead, the long road to Synek and beyond.
34
By midday two mornings later, Secca and her force had traveled far enough east that only the top of the road was damp, the clay only slightly slippery, so quickly had the late fall storm swept out of the Ostfels and then dissipated. The sky remained slightly hazy, and the sun offered little warmth. A thin layer of slushy snow covered any area where there was grass or low vegetation, but the spots of bare ground and the tree limbs were barely damp.
Richina rode on Secca’s left, the side closest to the River Syne, a thin line of blue water between and below the low hills. The hills were covered mostly with snow-dusted brown grass. Smaller woodlots were dotted across the hills, generally close to the cots that appeared scattered almost randomly.
“What is Lord High Counselor Hadrenn like?” asked Richina.
“I have never met Lord Hadrenn. I have seen his image in the reflecting pond, but he preferred to deal with either Lady Anna or Lord Robero. He is said to be well-mannered and would like to do the best he can for Ebra. His arms commander is named Stepan, and Lady Anna said Stepan was most capable.” Secca smiled. “He was once a most handsome man, Stepan was.”
“How did you know him?”
“He is from Synek, but when the Evult conquered that land, Stepan fled to Defalk and served my father. After my father’s illness, and when Hadrenn reclaimed his patrimony, Stepan and Gestatr returned to Synek.”
“You know him well, then.”
“I was but eight the last time I saw him,” Secca said with a laugh. “Doubtless he remembers me as but a child.”
“It sounds like Stepan is the reason Hadrenn has remained Lord High Counselor,” ventured Richina.
“I have had surmises along those lines,” admitted Secca, “but we shall see.” Not that they had much time to see, she feared, since her use of the glass that morning had shown that Mynntar was almost at the end of the road bordering the River Dol and within twenty or thirty deks of the River Syne road that led westward to Synek.
When the riders reached the next hill crest on the slippery clay of the road, Secca could not help but smile at what she saw—a stone bridge with a level roadbed supported by a graceful arch that spanned the narrow River Syne, with a style that could only have been created by the sorcery of a single individual.
Richina glanced from the bridge to Secca, and then back to the bridge, before asking, “Did you know of this?”
“No. She must have done it in the early years, when I was still in Defalk. I can see why she did.” Just how many other bridges, buildings, and accomplishments would Secca find in the years and deks before her? And how long before the emptiness within her healed?
“So that any forces she had to send would have an easy crossing?”
/>
Secca nodded. “There won’t be others to the east of here, I don’t think. They could be used by anyone opposing Hadrenn.”
Both glanced up at the sound of hoofs coming over the low rise on the road ahead. One of the lancers who had earlier been sent out as a scout rode back toward the column. With him was another rider, wearing a dark green sash over his riding jacket, and a shoulder harness for a blade far longer than the sabres used by Secca’s lancers.
As Secca stood in the stirrups, she could see a half-score of riders farther back along the muddy road.
“Welcome!” called the Ebran lancer. “Sorceress-Protector, Lord Hadrenn bids you welcome.”
“Our thanks to you and to Lord Hadrenn!” Secca called back.
Half-bowing in the saddle, the young brown-haired lancer pointed toward the bridge. “Lord Hadrenn’s hold lies beyond the great bridge, and to the north.”
“You may lead on,” suggested Wilten. “The way has been damp, and we would welcome a dry holding.”
“Dry and welcome you shall be,” called the young lancer, grinning mostly at Richina.
As Hadrenn’s lancer turned his mount, Secca glanced at her apprentice. “He was looking at you.”
Even from more than a yard away, Secca could see Richina flush.
“Enjoy it. Just don’t take it too seriously.” Secca looked over her shoulder at the oiled case that held her lutar, then at Palian.
“We will be ready, lady,” answered the chief player.
Behind the second players, Elfens stood in his stirrups and grinned at Secca. Secca grinned back at the irrepressible and cheerful head archer, then turned her attention back to the front of the column where the Ebrans rode. None slowed as they neared the stone-paved causeway leading to the bridge.
Once beyond the bridge, the road began to climb gently and followed the riverbank, more westward than north. Below, along the river, was a thick growth of bushes and trees, a few still bearing traces of tattered yellow leaves.
A good glass passed before Secca finally saw Synek to the northwest. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the town. From the dwellings on the river and from those on the hills above, Secca judged it to be perhaps a third the size of Falcor, and yet older, with no new structures that she could discern.
“We near Lord Hadrenn’s hold!” called one of the Ebran lancers.
Secca looked from the town to the right, past a small orchard. The hold for the Lord High Counselor of Ebra sat on a gentle rise, surrounded by a low wall constructed of ancient yellow bricks, no more than two yards high. An iron gate was set in the middle of the wall, and the lane running from the hold to the gate stretched almost a dek, Secca judged. The structure itself seemed to have been built at two different times, with the left side, of tan stone and yellow brick, seeming far older than the more smoothly dressed marble of the right side. Even so, the entire structure seemed only slighter larger than Loiseau. Out from the hold—more of a hulking mansion than a liedburg—stood a double handful of outbuildings of assorted sizes, some built of yellow bricks, some of a tan sandstone, and several of brick and wood.
As Secca and her escort neared the gate, a full company of Ebran lancers rode down the cobblestoned lane from the hold, splitting into two lines and turning their mounts to present an honor guard to Secca and her lancers.
A fanfare from a single trumpet echoed across the afternoon. The Ebran lancers held ranks until all of the Defalkan lancers had passed, then swung in behind the last of the column.
Secca, Wilten, and Richina reined up in the paved courtyard at the rear of the main structure.
The man who stood on the balcony above the rear courtyard was blocky, bald, and beamed down at Secca from above a large paunch. A purple scar ran from the side of his nose to below his right ear. Secca recognized Hadrenn from her efforts at scrying him.
“We welcome you, Sorceress-Protector of the East.”
“We bring greetings and aid from Lord Robero of Defalk,” Secca replied.
“His and your greetings are even more welcome than your assistance, although we are grateful for both.” Hadrenn gestured toward the entrance below him. “Once you have taken care of your mounts, I would meet you below.”
“We will be most pleased.” Secca offered a smile she hoped was warm enough.
35
Encora, Ranuak
Standing in the formal receiving room, the silver-and-blonde-haired Matriarch glances toward the clear blue crystal chair of the Matriarchy, set upon the low dais at the far end of the long room half-walled with floor-to-ceiling windows. Then she looks back at Alcaren, who waits just inside the doorway, and speaks. “A lady in a black cloak will be arriving shortly. You will wait outside the door and announce her. You will not escort her inside, but let her enter by herself. You will let no others in to see me, should they accompany her. If she will not enter by herself, she may not enter.”
“Should I not…” Alcaren stops. His eyes drop to the blue stone floor. “I am sorry.”
“You are right to worry about me, but this is one room where I am secure by myself.” A wry smile follows the words. “Unless I must face more than one other.”
“You are the Matriarch.” Alcaren inclines his head. “I am still learning. Yet…might I ask? One of the Ladies of Shadows?”
“Yes. I am certain that they wish to warn me about something sorcerous. I may already know it, or I may not, but it is better to listen and hear again what one knows than to ignore the request and fail to learn something that I should know.” Alya nods. “You may go and take your position without.”
“Yes, Matriarch.”
Once the door shuts, and the Matriarch is alone, she walks to the dais, where she seats herself in the crystalline chair, upon the blue cushion that is the sole softness within the formal receiving room. She straightens herself and waits, thinking, oblivious to the cold autumn sunlight that angles through the clear glass of the closed windows and falls upon the shimmering blue stone floor.
Before long, there is a knock on the door, followed by Alcaren’s voice. “A Lady of the Shadows to see you, Matriarch.”
“Show her in,” replies Alya.
The door opens. In walks a figure of height neither small nor exceedingly tall, but wearing a black cloak that covers all from the crown of the head down to just above the tops of the mid-calf black boots. The door closes. The hooded cloak of black shadows the face of the figure standing in the receiving room, but the shadows are not deep enough to conceal the gray hair and the age-sharpened jaw. Nor is the cloak bulky enough to disguise that the caller is a woman.
The Matriarch sits erect upon the clear blue crystal chair of the Matriarchy. “You requested an audience?”
“I did, Matriarch.” The woman bows gracefully. “We appreciate that you are willing to hear us.”
“What did you wish to bring to my attention?”
“We understand that two sorceresses of Defalk are traveling eastward into Ebra to deal with the rebellion of Lord Mynntar, and that a third is in Neserea. Further, there is a renegade sorcerer in Neserea who has been partially trained by the Sturinnese. He has already used sorcery to slaughter a company of Mansuuran lancers.”
“For women who abhor sorcery, you know a great deal.”
“We have never opposed sorcery for knowledge and communications, only its use as a tool for changing the world and weather or for warfare.”
The Matriarch waits for the Lady of the Shadows to speak again.
“Last, you have trained a man in sorcery, armed him as one of your guards, and set him before you.” The dark eyes under the hood fix on the Matriarch.
“That is true. He is where I can watch him, and he can protect me in these disturbing times.”
“Not in generations have there been so many sorceresses—and sorcerers—in Liedwahr trained for war.” The Lady of the Shadows pauses. “There are two other sorceresses yet in Falcor who may yet bring their evil arts into play, and several apprentices.”
“Matriarch, we exist because of the horrors of the Spell-Fire Wars. We would not see sorcery such as that ever unleashed again.”
“Ranuak would not be here today without the Spell-Fire Wars,” Alya points out. “All our ancestors would have died under the yoke of the Mynyan lords.”
“That was a price we cannot pay again, Matriarch, and well you know that. Ebra is yet a blighted and poor land, and Wei remains so, and cold as well. We must trade, for much of our land remains boggy and wet, and far too many of those bogs poison the land around them.” The shadow lady waits within the black cloak.
“All that is true. What would you have me do? I have trained none in battle sorcery, nor have I used such sorcery. Yet the Sturinnese have used sorcery to flatten most of Narial. Their vessels swarm around the coast. They are blocking our trading vessels, and they support the rebel Mynntar in Ebra. Defalk sees itself threatened.”
“You must insist that Lord Robero turn from sorcery.”
The Matriarch laughs, ruefully. “Defalk has perhaps thirty full companies of lancers. Dumar has less than that—or had less than that. We have twenty. The Maitre of Sturinn can bring ten times that to our shores, should he wish. Do you think my words will sway either Lord Robero or the Maitre?”
“Then close the Exchange to the Defalkans and their allies. You must. This poor land cannot bear another set of scars like those of the Spell-Fire Wars.”
“We are already losing trading vessels to the Sturinnese. Before long, few or none will port here. Then…we will need trade from Defalk and Ebra far more than they will need it from us. Do you wish me to condemn our people to starvation?”
“Better that than death in fire and flame.”
“It has not come to that. It may well not. I will do as I can.”
The Lady of the Shadows bows. “Thank you, Matriarch. We have offered what we know, and what we fear from another excess of sorcery. We have warned you.”
“I do hope that is not a threat,” Alya says.
The Shadow Sorceress: The Fourth Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 13