The sun hung low above the western horizon before the smallboat returned to the Alycet for the last time, the third officer shaking her head when she positioned the craft under the davits. “None left, captain.”
As the crew turned the winches that lifted the boat, Weyla walked toward Secca.
The sorceress turned. “I’m sorry, captain.”
The older woman gave a slight, but firm headshake. “Risk we all understood, sorceress. Wasn’t all your doing. I told Ilspeth she needed to re-rig for the Gulf and southern waters. Didn’t believe me.”
“Is she…?”
Weyla shook her head. “Second said she was dragging lancers topside, then got caught in something. Went down with the Wavesinger.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No one made us take you, sorceress. We all wanted the risk golds. Besides, first time in a year that any caught by the Sea-Pigs have come clear.”
“I cost you a ship.” Secca glanced up at the main mast, where the tattered mainsail had been furled. “And more.”
“This is war, Lady Secca. You lost half a company, and all their mounts.” Weyla smiled grimly. “I would trade a sail for my life and my ship any day, and one ship for five Sturinnese.” Weyla smiled grimly. “None will reach us afore we make port at Ilygot. Maybe not even for weeks.”
Secca hoped not. She wondered if trading one ship for five would be enough, given the vast Sturinnese fleets she had seen in her glass. Again…her lack of experience had cost everyone dearly, no matter what the Elahwan captain said.
“ ’Sides, this way, with those Sea-Pigs gone, and them having no other shallow water vessels, we can slip back along the coast and pick up your other lancers, neat as you please. Also be a while afore they try the Gulf.” The captain gestured toward the helm. “Best we get on with it. Be a bit tricky coming in after dark.” With a brisk nod, Weyla turned and moved toward the helmsman.
Secca returned the nod. She felt numb, far number even than after the land battles that had killed many more lancers on both sides.
Alcaren reappeared, wearing a dry set of blues, doubtless his only other uniform. His face was almost as pale as Secca felt hers was. He looked at her with eyes that seemed to look within her. “Few could do what you did.”
“I did not know.” She shook her head. “I acted too late.”
“It is difficult to cast spells on a moving deck, and more so to do it in a storm, as you did with the last spell.”
“You’re kind,” she replied, “but I almost failed, and many died because I was slow and did not understand.”
“Most of us live because of you.” His voice was firm.
She shook her head a second time, turning away from him and looking aft, back toward the wreckage that still marked her failure, and the watery grave of half a company of lancers, good mounts, and too many sailors.
Alcaren stepped to the taffrail, standing beside her, not speaking.
Secca was grateful for his presence, and for his acceptance of her need for silence.
They stood there, without speaking, as the Alycet swung southwest once more, leading the way toward Ilygot…and Ranuak.
99
As dawn seeped past the closed shutters into the small inn room, Secca turned over, to avoid facing the light. Even with her eyes closed, her head ached, and dayflashes seared through her skull. The light strengthened.
Finally, the sorceress sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. The floorboards were cold…and gritty. Sitting in the gray light that seemed far brighter than she knew it was, she used her left hand to massage her forehead and then her neck. Her head still ached, and her eyes burned, whether she opened them or closed them. But headache or not, Secca was a person who woke early, and once awake, seldom if ever could return to slumber.
She could smell the harbor of Ilygot, the dampness of a winter mist, the odor of fish decaying somewhere. Slowly, she stood and tottered toward the basin and pitcher on the side table. She began to wash, reflecting on the day before, and upon her slowness in reacting to the Sturinnese. Had it been thunder-drums upon the other vessels, drums she had not heard, or had it simply been because she had been attempting sorcery under most unfamiliar conditions?
Weyla and the three other Elahwan captains had managed to rescue slightly more than half the lancers aboard the Wavesinger, and most of the crew, simply because they had been topside. The losses had not been nearly so great as in some battles, but they still bothered her because she knew they could have been avoided by a more experienced sorceress.
She snorted quietly to herself. The only problem was that there weren’t any sorceresses or sorcerers who were more experienced in warfare—except among the Sturinnese, who never seemed to stop fighting somewhere.
After she pulled on her riding clothes, Secca pulled back one shutter and looked downhill at the empty piers. The Alycet and the other Elahwan ships were gone. Although Weyla had told Secca that she would sail before dawn, to catch the land breezes, Secca somehow felt regretful and alone.
From the adjoining narrow bed came a groan as Richina turned over. “How…lady…it is most early…”
Secca did not reply for a moment, finally closing the shutter and turning. “I was too uncomfortable to sleep longer. You can sleep for a bit. I’m going down to get something to eat.”
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed and pulled on her boots, then stood and reclaimed her riding jacket. All her clothes felt clammy and chill, and her head still throbbed.
After opening the door, she stepped into the narrow hall where Rukor and Dymen stood. “Lady Richina may be a while yet.”
Rukor smiled. “I will accompany you, lady.”
Secca descended the staircase, a passage so small that her shoulders almost brushed both walls, and stepped out into the foyer off the public room. The odor of bread and grease wafted toward her, and she swallowed.
With Rukor standing guard behind her, Secca debated entering the small public room, empty as it was save for Wilten, her own officers, and Alcaren. The two overcaptains had been sitting at a corner table, and, upon seeing Secca, Alcaren rose and bowed in her direction.
Secca stepped forward.
“Good morning, lady.” Alcaren’s voice was cheerful.
Secca nodded, but did not speak immediately as she seated herself.
Wilten gestured toward the single serving woman. “Something hot for the lady.”
“Cider be all we got.”
“Fine.” Secca’s voice cracked on the single word. “And some bread and cheese, please.”
“You be wanting any mutton, lady?”
“No…I think not. Thank you.” Even the thought of mutton sent cramps through her stomach. She waited until the serving woman turned. “How is everyone this morning?”
“All the lancers that got saved are fine, lady,” Wilten replied. “Good thing as the ocean is warmer here, though. Some were pretty chill, and a lot of bruises, but only two were hurt beyond that—one got a broken arm and another a slash across the shoulder. We used the elixir on both and set the arm.”
With a thunk, the serving woman set a tall mug of steaming cider on the plank table. “Here ye be. Two coppers.”
Secca fumbled for her wallet, and Alcaren slipped a pair of coppers onto the table, coppers that vanished into the large hand of the woman.
“Thank you,” Secca said.
“Best you not be opening that wallet here,” murmured the Ranuan.
The Sorceress nodded and then sipped the hot cider slowly. After several small swallows, she broke off a chunk of the warm and moist dark bread. As she ate, she could feel some of her headache recede. She still was seeing occasional dayflashes.
“Captain Weyla said it could be six to eight days before she’d be able to return with the last two companies,” Alcaren volunteered after a time of silence. “Especially to bring more mounts.”
Secca ignored the fact that Weyla had told her the same thing the night before, and look
ed at Wilten.
“I can wait here for the other two companies, Lady Secca,” offered the older overcaptain.
“You wouldn’t mind that?”
“Lady Secca, I’d just as soon be here as in Encora. I’m not a town lancer, not in a large town, anyway.”
And not in a city run by women, either, Secca suspected. “You’ll need to keep one company.”
“The one without mounts is fine. Won’t have to worry much about feed,” he replied. “You should leave as soon as you can.”
“Why do you think so?” Secca repressed a frown. Wilten had been the one who had been most opposed to traveling to Ranuak. “It’s likely to take several glasses to straighten matters out.”
“The Sturinnese are after you, Lady Secca. They might well send vessels here if you linger. If they believe you to be heading to Encora, then the last two companies will find sailing less…disputed…and we will have more lancers when we need them, whether that be in returning to Defalk or in going on to Dumar.”
Secca took another swallow of the cider. While it had a deeper clove taste than she would have preferred, the hot liquid was definitely easing the tightness in her throat.
“And, begging your pardon, lady, you are not looking up to great sorceries in the next days,” Wilten added.
Her overcaptain was definitely right about that. She turned to Alcaren. “Should we not send messengers ahead to request the Matriarch’s permission to come to call upon her?”
He nodded. “Only four initially, I would suggest.”
“Two SouthWomen, and two lancers?”
“That would be best.”
“They can depart when we do.” Secca frowned. She’d have to give them golds for lodging, and she was beginning to doubt that the hoard of coins she had brought, extravagant as the amount had seemed when she had left Loiseau, would see her through the coming weeks, let alone an expedition into Dumar.
She took another mouthful of bread and cheese, wondering what she could really do in Encora. Would she just have to wait until spring to travel overland to Dumar? Or would Dumar be completely in the hands of the Sturinnese by then?
She lifted the mug.
100
Encora, Ranuak
The winter mist collects on the window beyond the Matriarch’s study, gathering, and then oozing down the ancient glass in slow rivulets. Inside, in the glow of the oil lamps set in white bronze sconces on the white walls, Aetlen sets down the mandolin and looks to the woman who sits behind the flat table desk. “You look like you are listening, but your mind is elsewhere.”
Alya says slowly, “The glass tells me that the shadow sorceress fought a sea battle with the Sturinnese south of the Gulf. She destroyed four ships with storms and the fifth with fire.”
“Upon the open ocean?” asks Aetlen.
“Upon the open ocean. She is riding south from Ilygot with two companies of her lancers and one of SouthWomen. She will arrive here in three days.”
“Is Alcaren with her?”
“He is. I cannot say what transpires between them, save he is acting as overcaptain for both her lancers and his.”
“It could be worse.” He leans forward and sets the mandolin on the polished wood of the table-desk, then leans back, his eyes still on the Matriarch. “Using Alcaren so…you risk much.”
“Not so much as not using him. At worse, he guards our ally. At best, he will learn enough to help her…and us.”
“That is a frail reed,” Aetlen points out.
“As my mother said, it is the only reed we have, except trust in the Harmonies.”
“You both have had this habit of assisting the Harmonies.”
Alya shrugs and smiles. “Where I can…”
“Do the Ladies of the Shadows know the Sorceress approaches?” asks the sandy-haired consort.
“I would think not yet, but within glasses they will.” Alya sighs. “Best we make ready the guest quarters and barracks, and put on extra guards.”
“You expect them to act that soon?”
Alya laughs. “I would be most surprised if they did not. A true great sorceress within Encora? One who has no scruples about using her powers?”
“I would say she must have some.”
“She uses them. To the Ladies of the Shadows, that means she has none.”
Aetlen winces. “They would die rather than be chained, as are women in Sturinn, yet they would kill one of the few hopes of holding off the Sea-Priests.”
“The Sea-Priests have already lost fleets and more than a hundred score lancers to the sorceresses of Defalk, and Defalk has no interest in exerting power beyond Liedwahr. Yet the Sea-Priests persist. Who is more foolish?”
Aetlen laughs, his tone bitter. “And we are caught between those who will not use sorcery to save us and those who will use it to enslave us.”
“Ever it has been, dearest. Those who are blind slaves to principled belief would claim virtue while murdering for their beliefs. Yet they claim that they are exalted above those who profess no such principles at all, even as the bodies pile up.”
“It is indeed a pity that you cannot say such openly.”
“That…I cannot do. Not while the dismal swamps yet dot Ranuak, or the Sand Hills shift across the north, covering towns and uncovering others to reveal mummies of mothers still holding babes in arms.”
“I know.” Aetlen’s voice is soft. “I know. So, again, we must put our trust in the Harmonies, and in others.”
“And post guards,” Alya says dryly. “And train sorcerers whom we cannot avow.”
Both laugh, half in irony, half in bitterness.
101
Dark gray clouds loomed over the valley to the west of the road, clouds so dark that the early afternoon felt more like twilight. The road, while not paved, was of a firm clay and just wide enough for two wagons to pass side by side. The valley itself was split by a narrow river. To the east of the river, below the road, was an ancient-looking conifer forest, although the trees displayed a coloration that held as much black and purple as green.
Beyond the river to the west were small ponds fringed with yellowish reeds and linked by patches of sickly greens and orangish-browns. From amid the browns protruded leafless pole-like trees. Secca could see not a single dwelling in the entire valley, which stretched a good fifteen deks from northeast to southwest, and more than ten in breadth.
A light mist drifted across the riders heading along the ridge road to the southwest. Secca and Alcaren rode near the front of the column, behind a small vanguard of four lancers, and in front of Richina and Palian. With the mist came a sickly bitter odor from the valley, not quite like burned meat, nor like swamps, nor like rotten fruit, but reminding Secca of all three.
“Not a pleasant place,” she said quietly.
“No,” Alcaren admitted. “These are the Great Dismal Swamps of the north. They say that once the entire valley was like the western side.”
“What caused them?” Richina’s voice drifted up from behind Secca and Alcaren.
“The Spell-Fire Wars,” Alcaren replied. “There are many valleys like this throughout Ranuak.”
“From sorcery?” Richina’s voice carried a tone of disbelief.
“From sorcery,” Alcaren affirmed. “You have seen a battlefield blasted black by Lady Secca, have you not? Do you think she or the Lady Anna were the first to harness such power?” He glanced at Secca.
“We have blackened the land in a few places,” Secca admitted. “But nothing I have done would turn a valley into something like this—even after scores of generations. Nor did Lady Anna create any destruction such as this.”
“I would hope not, lady.” Alcaren’s voice was calm. “Yet this was the price for the freedom of both Wei and Ranuak from the Mynyan lords. These valleys once held hamlets and towns, and the sorcery of the Mynyans turned them into spell-blasted holes that filled with water and became poisoned bogs and swamps. The Sand Hills are where the ancient Matriarchs turned the once
-fertile borderlands of Mynya into desert heaped with sand. When the spring storms shift the dunes, folk still find hamlets where lie the bodies of those poor folk buried under the sand in those long-ago days.”
“Are you sure that the dunes date back that far?” asked Richina. “I thought the Evult used sorcery to move the Sand Hills to block the Sand Pass.”
“He moved the Sand Hills.” Alcaren turned in his saddle. “He did not create them. The first Matriarchs did that through their sorcery.”
Had sorcery done all that? Secca glanced to the dark and misshapen trees, and then to the sickly greens of the bogs and swamps. After a moment, she considered the contents of the notebooks locked behind iron at Loiseau…and shivered.
Alcaren did not remark upon her reaction, but continued to ride beside her. Secca looked ahead, where the road followed the ridge line toward the southwest…and Encora.
102
Secca shifted her weight in the saddle, glad for the morning’s sunshine, hazy as it was. She rode between Palian and Delvor, and behind Alcaren and Richina. The road followed the northern bank of a small river that wound through low rolling hills generally covered with scattered grasses and scrub bushes. At times, Secca had seen small flocks of sheep in the distance, but the size of the flocks suggested that the grazing was indeed poor.
“Is there a better way to set up the players if we must offer spells from a ship again?” she asked, looking first to Palian, and then to the lank-haired chief of second players.
“The sound of the instruments might carry farther from the rear deck,” offered Delvor. “They would from the front deck, but there is much spray, and damp strings lose their tuning in moments.”
“Do you think we will need to use ships against the Sea-Priests?” Palian frowned.
The Shadow Sorceress: The Fourth Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 43