The Shadow Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  14

  Mansuus, Mansuur

  Kestrin, Liedfuhr of Mansuur, paces back and forth in front of the desk in the upper-level private study. On his left arm is a mourning band of black and maroon, standing out against the sky-blue velvet of his tunic sleeve. After a time, he stops and laughs.

  “And you used to tease your father for his pacing.” Mur­muring to himself, he walks to the window behind the desk and stands there, looking out from the hillside palace at the wide river Toksul, smooth and broad, leading westward to the port of Wharsus.

  With a deep breath, he walks to the bellpull and tugs it firmly, but not violently. Then he walks back to the broad desk and picks up the scroll. He has barely reread the short report when the study door opens.

  “Yes, sire?” The trim lancer overcaptain steps inside, closes the outer door, and bows. His hair, mostly gray, with a few streaks of raven black, does not stir as he straightens.

  “I read your latest report, Bassil.” Kestrin smiles, then shakes his head. “How long have you been writing these reports? Two-score years?”

  “A score and six, sire.”

  “Since just before the appearance of the sorceress.”

  “Just after, actually.”

  Kestrin pauses. “Does it not seem strange that she and father died within weeks of each other?”

  “Given that they were the greatest rulers in Liedwahr,” Bassil says slowly, “and given that we have a world ruled by unseen Harmonies, perhaps it was not so strange.”

  “Was she that great?”

  Bassil pauses, almost imperceptibly. “Greater than that, sire."

  “Greater than my father?"

  “Not in Mansuur, sire.”

  Kestrin laughs. “Father warned me about you, Bassil. He said you would tell me the truth whether I liked it or not, and that the more questions I asked whose answers I didn’t like, the more I’d understand.”

  Bassil smiles, not quite indulgently.

  “How great was she?”

  “Great enough that, had she more years and children, all Liedwahr would be united and at peace.” Bassil shrugs. “That is but my poor opinion, sire."

  “You don’t think much of Lord Robero, do you?”

  “He is capable enough that he understood to change his name and that he listens to his sorceresses and his consort, and they appear most capable. And there are more sorcer­esses in Defalk than in all of Liedwahr. They train others, as well.”

  “So... perhaps the long-departed Lord Ehara was right, that the men of Liedwahr will be ruled by women?"

  “No, sire. There cannot be enough sorceresses to rule that way, and in all lands there are Ladies of the Shadows who oppose sorcery. Yet even with such opposition, there can be enough sorceresses that it will be dangerous for lords and holders to abuse women.”

  Kestrin nods, “We cannot change that, one way or the other. What of Lord High Counselor Hanfor?"

  “He is a most capable man tasked with governing a land that despises ability in anything but intrigue and plotting. Without your sister, he would have had a much more dif­ficult time.”

  “Father and I were glad that worked out. He seems to be a good man, and Aerlya is happy.”

  “Your sister was most fortunate.” Bassil waits. Kestrin lifts the short scroll. “I’ve read this several times. There is one question that remains unanswered. How did an entire company of lancers vanish? Where did they go?’

  The older overcaptain shrugs. “Sire, I do not know. No one knows.”

  “You’re telling me that a company of Mansuuran lanc­ers stationed on port duty at Hafen just vanished? And my wretched seers cannot find them?”

  “No, sire.”

  Kestrin smiles lazily. “What ships ported there?’

  “Ah... the port records—”

  “—are missing,” concludes the Liedfuhr. ‘The lancers are on a ship, because that’s the only place where a seer would have trouble finding them. Someone bought them— and their captain—and they want to make trouble. It has to be the Sea-Priests.” He fingers his chin. “Where? Can’t be Defalk... no ports. Could be Nordwei... or Neserea or Ebra. Probably not Dumar.”

  “Nordwei?”

  “Just how would I explain to the bitch traders of Wei that I had no control over my own lancers after they raided or sacked some outlying port like Lundholn?"

  “Dumar is the weakest land of all those bordering Man­suur, Bassil points out

  “True enough, although without the sorceress-protector of Defalk, Ebra would certainly be a ripe plum ready to fall, but...“ Kestrin frowns. ‘With the golds it took, they could have bribed a company in Cealur, and it would have taken longer far us to learn, and it would have been far closer to Dumar. We will see. Too soon, I fear.” After a pause, Kestrin adds, “The sorceress is dead less than two weeks, my father less than four, and the world is chang­ing.”

  “Change it will, sire, for they were the two strongest rulers in Liedwahr.”

  “Can I be that strong, Bassil?" Kestrin’s eyes fix upon the lancer overcaptain.

  “If you work as your father did, sire. If you spend every moment thinking of Mansuur, and not of yourself.”

  “And if I listen... carefully.” Kestrin laughs, ruefully.

  Bassil nods.

  “See if anyone can discover more about the missing lancers—before they appear in a dispatch I will not wish to read.”

  “I can but try, sire.”

  “I know.” As Bassil steps back, Kestrin turns and looks out at the river below, and at the gray clouds that herald winter sweeping in from the northwest. He does not move as the study door closes behind the overcaptain.

  15

  As she stepped into the large workroom, Secca glanced at the harp beside the reflecting pool, noting absently that the mute bars had not been applied. “You’re the one who didn’t apply them.” She had been the last to use the pool, since Richina did not yet use it without Secca’s su­pervision.

  While it would have taken a powerful sorcerer or sor­ceress to overhear her in Anna’s workroom—hers, now, Secca realized sadly—it was possible. She turned toward the harp, but before she could fasten the muting bars in place, the bell on the top of the harp rang—twice. Clayre, rather than Jolyn.

  Secca picked up the lutar, turned to the reflecting pool, and strummed the receiving song.

  "... let me hear,

  in tones so clear...”

  The clear water silvered over, then the image of a dark-haired woman with hazel-green eyes appeared. “How are you doing?’ asked the image, although the words vibrated from the harp strings rather than coming from the image in the pool.

  “It’s hard,” Secca admitted. “I haven’t been sleeping that well. There’s been more to do than I’d thought, and it’s hard to keep my mind on it.”

  “She was more like your mother.”

  “She is ... was ... my mother. You know that. I was always an inconvenience to Anientta.”

  “I understand that”

  Secca nodded in acknowledgment. Clayre’s mother had died at Clayre’s birth, and Clayre had never seen eye to eye with her stepmother. “How is Birke?"

  “Doing well. He always sends scrolls.” Clayre laughed. “He’ll feel guilty to the end of his days. and that will be good for him.”

  “At least he feels guilty.”

  “Have you heard anything from Wasle?” asked Clayre.

  “Richina hasn’t said anything; there haven’t been any scrolls from Suhl.”

  “He never was much for writing.” Clayre paused.

  Secca waited.

  “There’s more bad news,” Clayre said slowly. “From the west”

  “On top of Konsstin’s death?”

  “This is worse. Konsstin had been ailing for years. Kestrin has been acting as Liedfuhr for the past year, even if most people didn’t know it”

  “What is it?” Secca couldn’t say she was surprised. Anna had been such a force that people were bound t
o react upon learning of her death, especially combined with the death of the old Liedfuhr of Mansuur.

  “Hanfor died. Some sort of bloody flux. Jolyn’s con­vinced it was poison... assassins. I’d believe it. Robero says it’s just an unfortunate occurrence. What he thinks ... who knows?"

  “Who?"

  ‘The most likely suspect is someone named Belmar. No one knows much about him, except that he’s a Nes­erean holder from an old family. He claims descent from the Prophet, and he’s got an ancient castle over­looking a place on the Bitter Sea called Worlan. We can’t catch him at it, but the Harmonies are disrupted around him, and he has more armsmen than his holding and lands could support for long. All the pools show is a good-looking young man with a charming smile. Until two years ago, no one had ever heard of him. He was making eyes at Annayal, but never enough for Hanfor to reject him outright. But he’s sharp enough to have gotten the message.”

  “And sent one of his own?" asked Secca.

  “I’m not sure. There are several others with reasons of their own. Another holder named Svenmer. Besides Belmar, he’s the closest relative of the last prophet, a cousin of some sort. And then there’s Chyalar, the son of the holder of Itzel.”

  “But this Belmar is special? I suppose he has black hair.” Secca smiled. “And deep blue eyes.”

  “What else?” Clayre laughed. “But I wouldn’t trust him anywhere near my chamber. Nor would Jolyn.”

  “They didn’t wait long.” Secca took a long breath.

  “There’s more.”

  “Oh?” Secca could feel her stomach tightening.

  “Lord Robero has a scroll from Lord High Counselor Clehar. He’s asking for a consort—one who can protect Dumar. Lady Ryvyn died two seasons ago.”

  “You?” asked Secca. “Doesn’t be know about sor­ceresses?”

  “He has three sons and a daughter. His brothers have sons. He’s requested a consortship that will not re­quire...“ Clayre snorted.

  “He’s just doing that to get Robero to reduce Du­mar's liedgeld. Crying poverty, and claiming that he won’t be as well protected now that Anna’s gone."

  “As if we haven’t been..."

  Secca raised a finger to her lips.

  “I know. I still don’t think the seers of Wei are that good.”

  “They probably aren’t, but we still don’t know that much about the Sea-Priests.”

  “You think they’re involved?”

  “They’ve been quiet for a long time,” Secca pointed out.

  “Anna destroyed their forces everywhere in Lied­wahr. But just before... you said they had massed fleets in the Ostisles. Do you think..."

  “Who knows? They kept their secrets well.”

  “She stopped them... but only in Liedwahr. I know you do not like to leave Loiseau. . .“ Clayre ventured, her voice humming as translated by the harp.

  “You’re telling me I should visit our Lord of Defalk.”

  “He does listen to you.” Clayre paused. “He doesn’t like it, but be does.”

  “He’s never liked it, not since I told him he was a bully when he was fourteen.”

  “You did?”

  Secca let the question pass. “I’m not comfortable... burying Anna, and then just leaving. But... too many things could happen if I don’t.”

  “It has to be your decision.” Clayre’ s words were slow and measured.

  “I’ll leave in the morning.”

  “Who will you bring?’

  “A company of lancers, the players, and Richina.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “She’s seventeen and old enough to travel with me, and she needs to see Falcor again.”

  “And what it is?”

  “What it is not” Secca added dryly. “I won’t bring the junior fosterlings. Kerisel and Jeagyn are too likely to be awed by Falcor.”

  “And Richina won’t be?"

  “That one is wise beyond her years. Perhaps too wise.”

  “I’ll let Robero know you’re coming. That way, he won’t be as likely to do something rash.”

  “We’ll see.” As she let the image in the pool fade, Secca wasn’t sure she had Clayre’s faith in her own influence over the Lord of Defalk, and much as she had appreciated Robero’s concerns about her happiness, the business with Lythner still nagged at her.

  Before she stepped over to the desk and the book­cases that surrounded it, with the notebooks Anna had writtcn and dictated to Secca over the years—notes on music, spells, and what Anna had called relevant sci­ence—Secca did remember to replace the muting bars on the harp.

  16

  Worlan, Neserea

  "How much longer?” Belmar glances through the heavy-­glazed windows of the bluff-top castle toward the gray and cold waters of the small harbor below, then at the figure who sits languidly in the dark wooden armchair next to the side table. ‘The winds that bring winter strengthen with each day.”

  "Tomorrow or the next day. I would guess. No longer than the day after,” answers the man in nondescript trav­eler’s gray. "No master would delay in these waters longer than necessary.” He gestures toward the Bitter Sea.

  “Especially not a Sturinnese master, even if he is claiming to be Pelaran,” replies the dark-haired holder. “You are sure the deed is done, master jerGlien?”

  "The Lord High Counselor is already dead.” The man in gray smiles. “And soon Neserea will need a skilled and strong leader to repulse the adventuresome Liedfuhr, who would annex Neserea under the guise of protecting his sister."

  “What the father tried... would not the son?" Belmar laughed. "The scrolls are ready to dispatch as well—once we act in preserving Neserea.”

  “Are your players ready?” JerGlien’s eyebrows lift as he straightens in the chair and takes a small sip from the goblet on the side table.

  “They’ve been ready for a season. Each week, they add another spell. Soon we will have enough for any condition we might encounter in battle in Neserea.”

  “One must still have armsmen.”

  “We already have five score fully trained. The sorceress conquered Dumar with less than that.”

  “She could risk them all, for she could call upon the levies of Jecks and Birfels,” counters the gray-clad man.

  “And I cannot?” half-queries Belmar.

  “No. You cannot. You must be seen as both strong and cautious. No one wishes a firebrand. The memories of the previous prophets are still too rancid.”

  "Those memories will work to my aid, especially in a Neserea with no real heir, and one where many of the more venerable holders would like the old customs back.”

  “I cannot say I understand the customs of Liedwahr. The eldest daughter of the Lord High Counselor has no consort, yet the second eldest—what might be her name—she is already consorted to that youngster in Dumar.”

  “You are right. Annayel has no consort. The problem is that there is no one suitable, or none the Lord High Coun­selor found suitable. Aerfor was consorted to Eryhal early in the fall, a love match, but that was permitted because no one would accept a younger daughter as Lady High Counselor of Neserea.”

  “Perhaps you should offer a suit to Annayal,” suggests jerGlien. “She is pretty, if not ravishingly attractive, and you are a holder of note.”

  “I have made my appearances, and that was enough for the time.” Belmar smiles. “I cannot act, not until others suggest such is appropriate. In the meantime, we need to proceed as we have planned."

  Without replying, jerGlien takes another sip from the goblet.

  17

  The rear courtyard at Loiseau was still gray in the glass before dawn when Secca strapped her gear in place, making sure that the grand lutar was securely fastened be­hind the saddle, balanced by the traveling scrying glass. She glanced to the sky, frowning momentarily as she caught the tiny red disk of light that was Darksong. the moon of misused sorcery and evil. Then, pushing any thought of omens out of her mind, she took the reins o
f the gray mare from the head ostler. Unlike Anna, she did not ride one of the enormous raider beasts—and had no desire to do so. Her words to the ostler caught in her throat as she realized that she would never see Anna on a raider beast again. She swallowed and said, "Thank you, Vyren.”

  “My pleasure, Lady Secca.”

  Secca checked her gear a last time before she swung up into the saddle. Behind her, Richina had already mounted a larger chestnut gelding.