After a moment, Secca said, “Tell me about the Matriarch. I know almost nothing.”
“Her given name is Alya. She has a consort. That is Aetlen, and they have two daughters. Her mother was the Matriarch, and she had two daughters as well.”
“What does she look like?”
“She was blonde as a younger woman, and her hair is silver and blonde these days. Unlike her mother, she is most slender, and her voice is higher, more like yours. She is most firm in a courteous but unyielding fashion.” Alcaren glanced at the road ahead.
Thinking of all the rivalries in holdings in Defalk, Secca asked, “What happened to the Matriarch’s younger sister?”
“The Matriarch is the younger sister,” Alcaren replied with an amused smile. “You met her older sister. That was Counselor Veria.”
Secca blinked.
“The story is well-known in Ranuak,” the Ranuan overcaptain continued. “When the FreeWomen revolted against the Lord Bertmynn, Veria joined the SouthWomen against the Matriarch’s wishes and went to Elahwa to fight. She almost died, but was saved when the great sorceress defeated Bertmynn and forced Lord Hadrenn to accept Elahwa as a Free City. Veria has been in Elahwa ever since, and is most respected.”
Secca noted the reference to Anna as the great sorceress, but continued, “And Counselor Veria did not insist you return to Elahwa?”
“I doubt she would have given her sister the pleasure,” Alcaren said dryly.
For all his ironic tone, and seeming straightforwardness, Secca had to wonder. “What does the Matriarch gain by having you accompany me?”
“Your good will, I would judge, and any knowledge of you I may choose to provide her.”
“You seem…you are most polite when you speak of the Matriarch,” Secca observed.
“She deserves my respect,” Alcaren replied.
“How did you get to be one of her guard chiefs?”
“She respects my abilities, and she told me she refused to allow me the luxury of self-pity.” Alcaren offered a laugh that contained equal parts of humor, amusement, and irony.
“And you respect her abilities?”
“How could I not? She is a most effective Matriarch.”
“She must be,” Secca said. “You are here.”
“Of course.” Alcaren could not quite conceal the frown that he tried to smile away.
Again, Secca wondered exactly why Alcaren had volunteered to aid her forces, beyond what he had said. She definitely needed to know more, but she needed to think before she inquired too deeply.
She also worried that she wanted to like the man, without knowing almost anything about him.
72
Mansuus, Mansuur
Kestrin paces back and forth in front of the study desk, ignoring the rattling of the windows in their casements from the northwest wind that hurtles through the clear skies above the hilltop palace.
Bassil’s eyes follow the Liedfuhr for several cycles of pacing before the older man just lets his eyes rest on the window directly behind the desk.
Abruptly, Kestrin halts before the desk and turns. “Aerlya has asked for support against this Belmar. He is raising the holders of the south and the west against Annayal.”
“Will you support her, sire?” Bassil’s words are uttered with the barest hint of a question.
Kestrin shrugs. “Not over the protests of Defalk, or not unless he vanquishes the Sorceress of Defalk.”
“If he does, would it be wise to send lancers?”
“Probably not.” Kestrin’s laugh is forced. “These days, nothing is wise. We have a force of Sea-Priests sweeping toward Narial. There is revolt in my sister’s land, supported by a sorcerer-holder trained by the Sturinnese. The Sea-Priests are trying to wrest Ebra from the Sorceress-Protector of the East, and she receives but little aid from the lord whose lands she is trying to preserve. Yet the Lord of Defalk holds back one of his sorceresses in Falcor, where she can do him no good.”
“The Sea-Priests will not succeed in Ebra,” Bassil predicts.
“You think not?”
“The shadow sorceress has broken their force at Elahwa, your seers say, and slaughtered fifty score or more in two battles.”
“But she has not touched their fleets,” Kestrin points out. “That is where the power of Sturinn lies.”
“The ships cannot be used with great effectiveness against Ebra, though the Maitre may try once more to support the heir of Dolov, if only to weaken and delay the sorceress.”
“You think that they will hold Dumar?”
“Once they set a goal, the Sea-Priests always attain it, though it may take years.” Bassil remains standing before the desk, but shifts his weight, as though he does not relish the words he has spoken.
Kestrin purses his lips, then nods.
“You have decided,” Bassil says. “What will you do?”
“Send twenty companies of lancers to Unduval, and a message to Lord Robero saying that I am doing so, but only to support Annayal, should she need such.”
“And you think he will believe such?”
“He will doubt it, I am sure.” Kestrin shakes his head. “You will also dispatch another thirty companies to Deleatur.”
“So that if your sister needs not your aid, you can move all to Dumar?”
“With the south in revolt, one way or another, southern Neserea lies open to the Sea-Priests once they take Dumar. I would rather fight on another’s lands than mine, and I am most certain that whoever may be Lord High Counselor of Dumar will not object to our assistance.”
“I foresee great conflict,” Bassil says quietly.
“Do you think I am wrong?” Kestrin raises his eyebrows.
“No, sire. I fear you are right. My only advice to you would be to make sure you have more lancers to dispatch by summer. And pray to the Harmonies that the sorceresses of Defalk are most effective.”
Kestin frowns, but does not speak.
73
High and fast-moving clouds had scudded overhead most of the day as Secca’s force had ridden northward. Occasionally light flurries of snowflakes had fallen, flakes that melted with the next burst of cold sunshine.
By late afternoon, when it was time to stop for the day, Secca and her forces had passed the river junction, but were still short of where the two roads split. Melcar and Wilten had recommended a bivouac site on a stream feeding the River Dol, one that had eroded away the clay on one side, leaving a low bluff on the northeast side that blocked the wind.
Once tielines had been set, and lancers organized into their own areas, Secca had summoned the overcaptains, the chief players, and Haddev. Because the wind was light, if chill, and the tent small, she propped up the traveling mirror with stones at a slight angle against the outside rear panel of the tent, so that all could more easily see.
“I’m going to try to see what the Sturinnese are doing. At midday, they were still riding the coast road, but they weren’t moving that swiftly.” Secca let her fingers run over the strings of the lutar. Then, abruptly, she glanced up toward Richina, and handed the younger sorceress the lutar. “Perhaps you should try, first. You have seen them enough to hold the image.”
Richina nodded gravely and took the lutar, fingering the strings and clearing her throat.
Finally, she began the spell.
“Mirror, mirror, on the ground…”
As Richina finished the last words, Secca realized that while almost everyone crowded around the mirror watched as the image formed out of the silver mists, Alcaren had not. His eyes and attention had been totally on Richina, on her words and playing.
Trying not to dwell on that observation, Secca studied the image along with the others.
The picture in the glass wavered at first, but then seemed to steady as Richina concentrated. Most of the silvered picture showed just a wide beach, but as Secca looked more closely, she could see the ships apparently anchored in dark gray water that appeared almost glassy. White-coated figures fi
lled several boats.
“They’re landing more,” said Haddev.
“Look again,” Melcar said. “They’re climbing nets into the ships.”
As the eight watched, another boat rowed toward the nearest vessel, and more of the lancers swarmed up the nets. Secca squinted, trying to make out the strange craft on the beach, with a ramp on it. She blinked, realizing that the square boat was a barge bearing a half-score mounts, scarcely a small craft. While Secca and the others watched, the barge began to move, although there were neither sails nor paddlers.
Alcaren pointed. “They have a cable, and they are using a winch. They will lift the horses aboard with a crane.”
Secca had the dismaying feeling that the Sturinnese had done just what she had watched many times before, and that they could unload mounts and lancers—perhaps even more swiftly than they were loading both. “They must have used the thunder-drums to still the sea near them.”
“If need be,” Alcaren said, “but that sorcery lasts only a short time, less than half a glass, and cannot be repeated often.”
The image wavered again, and Secca nodded to Richina, murmuring, “You may release it.”
After singing the release couplet, Richina took a long slow breath. Secca smiled.
“They would not be doing such were they planning to stay in Ebra,” noted Melcar.
“Or not near where they are,” said Wilten.
“We cannot reach them before they have loaded all the lancers and mounts,” said Haddev. The heir flushed, seeming to have realized, belatedly, that he had but stated the obvious.
“Best we hasten to Dolov,” said Secca.
Alcaren raised his eyebrows.
“Twice the keep has rebelled. There will not be a third time.”
“There should not be,” affirmed Melcar.
Haddev nodded.
At Alcaren’s continued faint frown, Secca looked to the Ranuan. “You may recall that Mynntar’s sire sacked Elahwa, and abused or killed most of the women there. There seems to be little difference in outlook between those of Dolov and those of Sturinn.” She paused, before adding, “We also may well be needed elsewhere before long, and we cannot leave Dolov in such unfriendly hands.”
“Elsewhere?” murmured someone, so low that Secca could not determine who might have spoken.
“Dumar…or even Neserea,” Secca suggested. “The Sea-Priests might bring more vessels back upon Elahwa. So we must act swiftly.”
If she could…riding against time and winter, without the most experienced arms commander, and without the experience she herself could have used.
74
By midmorning, Secca and Richina were riding northwest on the river road, well beyond the fork where the road to the coast had split off to head due east. The recent hoofprints in the damp clay of the coast road confirmed the earlier passage of the Sturinnese, and Secca’s use of the glass in the early morning had shown that the Sturinnese had completed loading all the lancers and mounts. The Sturinnese fleet was sailing southeast, doubtless to skirt the Shoals of Discord. Secca but hoped that she could deal with Dolov quickly, before the Sturinnese created another situation with which she might have to contend.
Richina turned slightly in the saddle of her mount and glanced back toward the rear of the column, her eyes seeking the black pennant that served as the standard for the lancers from Silberfels.
Secca caught the quick search, but refrained from saying anything, though she wanted to offer consolation. Instead, she reached for her water bottle and took a long swallow. Even in early winter, with the constant light but chill wind, riding was a thirsty business.
After they had ridden another dek, Richina eased her mount closer to Secca. “Was it just because he saw me do sorcery, lady?”
“I would think not,” the older sorceress replied, asking quietly, “What do you feel?”
“He used to find ways to talk to me, if briefly. He used to smile more at me. Now he smiles at me in the way he smiles at you.”
“He does seem a bit more removed,” Secca said.
Richina snorted. “He saw me sing two spells, and protect myself with a sabre, and I am different?”
“No. What he saw before was what he wished to see,” Secca suggested. “Then he saw you as you are.”
Richina glanced sideways at the red-headed sorceress, “Was that why you never consorted?” She lowered her eyes. “I am sorry, lady. I should not have asked such.”
Secca smiled gently. “It is difficult for any sorceress to find a consort.”
“Because we are different?”
Because we have power, Secca wanted to answer. She did not, instead pausing before replying deliberately, “All folk differ, even those in the same family. Is that not true in your family?”
Richina tilted her head before replying. “I had never thought it otherwise, but…” Her words trailed off into the slight whistle of the cold breeze.
“The Lady Anna once said,” Secca said slowly, “that a lady in Defalk had to choose between being an accepted possession or being unaccepted and respected.”
“I don’t think it’s like that at all,” Richina replied.
“We are riding to Dolov. The father of the present lord could not accept the idea of the free city of Elahwa. He sacrificed himself and scores of lancers and armsmen to keep women from being respected.”
“But…my mother is a lady, and she is respected.”
Secca nodded politely.
“You’re saying she’s not accepted?”
“I did not say anything,” Secca pointed out, “except what Lady Anna said.”
“Do you think that was because Lady Anna was an outsider?”
“That she felt that way? Perhaps.” Secca wasn’t so sure about that. She wondered if Anna had been an outsider in the Mist Worlds as well. “I don’t see as we’ll ever know.”
“No, I suppose we won’t.”
Secca took out the water bottle again.
After another long silence, Richina spoke once more. “Alcaren is handsome, don’t you think, Lady Secca?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Except Secca had noticed the Ranuan. She wouldn’t have called him handsome, but striking. He was exceptionally broad-shouldered, with penetrating gray-blue eyes, and fine brown hair, cut short, but lustrous, almost silky. He spoke little, except when addressed, and rode so gracefully that young Haddev looked gawky by comparison.
Secca still worried about the way the overcaptain watched her and Richina perform sorcery. Alcaren had not had the appearance of trying to memorize the spells or melody, nor had he pried or asked questions. He had not appeared anything but interested. He had not tried to ingratiate himself, nor to distance himself.
Secca shook her head. Not for the first time—nor the last, she suspected—she had to wonder just why Alcaren had wanted to accompany her. She wondered if she could find out while she still had time to decide what to do about the Ranuan—if indeed she would even have a choice. What seemed to be choices, she was discovering, were often illusions. Had she really had any choice about going first to Elahwa? Or pushing Richina into sorcery possibly dangerous to the young woman?
“Lady?”
“It is nothing. I was just thinking.”
Had it been any different for Anna? Secca wished now that she had asked more…and listened much more—much, much more.
75
For once, the day, although cold, was without wind, and felt far more temperate than it actually was. Riding the gray mare northward on the river road that led to Dolov, Secca felt warmer than she had since she had left Synek weeks earlier. She turned in the saddle and looked at Richina, who was studying the words on the paper before her, and humming the note values to match them. “How are you coming with that?”
“It’s not too hard.”
“You’ll have to know it well,” Secca said. “We’ll sing it together, and we need to match exactly.”
“Together?” Richina’s mouth opened. “Is t
hat not Darksong?”
Secca shook her head. “The Evult used massed voices, but it was their use that was Darksong, not the massing of voices. The Lady Anna studied this much in the last years, and we did some building spells together. It is tricky, but much easier that way.”
Richina gave Secca an off-center smile. “This spell is not for building.”
“No, but it will be necessary, I fear.”
“You are doubtless right, lady.”
“It is part of being a sorceress.”
Richina nodded slowly, as if to indicate that there were more than a few aspects of being a sorceress that were not totally to her liking.
Secca concealed a snort. Why did the young always think that a chosen calling meant that all parts of it would be to their liking?
After perhaps another dek of riding, Richina looked toward Secca. “How much longer? Another two days?”
“Three, probably, from what the maps show,” Secca answered, squinting at the oblong object rising out of the winter-browned grass on the left side of the road.
“That’s the first dekstone in days,” said Richina, her eyes following Secca’s.
“It’s an old one, probably from well before the Evult.” As the gray mare carried Secca toward the stone marker, the sorceress could finally make out the worn and simple inscription: “Rielte—4 d.”
Secca turned to Melcar, who rode on her left. “Do you know anything about this town?”
“No, lady,” Melcar replied. “I was born in Vuyoal.” When Secca did not reply, he added, “That is south of Vult and north of Synek. The town was mostly destroyed by the sorceress’s flood.”
“I am sorry.” As she spoke, Secca wondered why she happened to be sorry. That had been more than twenty years before, and she’d been less than ten years old at the time. Was it because sorcery always created hardships? “What have the scouts reported?”
“The town is quiet, and most have shuttered their houses.”
The Shadow Sorceress: The Fourth Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 29