The Shadow Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Palian, chief player of Anna’s—now Secca’s—players, eased her dapple toward the sorceress. "The first players are ready, Lady Secca.” The gray eyes almost matched the swatches of gray hair amid the black.

  “Thank you. Have you seen Delvor?”

  “He and the second players are over by the side entrance to the stables,” replied the graying chief player. Palian— who had taught Secca all her instmments—offered a wry smile.

  “He’s thought up another harmonic variation?” Secca repressed a sigh.

  “A new fingering scheme. I believe.”

  Secca nodded, ignoring the barely concealed snort from Richina, and eased the gray mare toward the back of the courtyard. After passing the lancers, she slowed as she came by the special archers. “Is everyone ready, Elfens?"

  “Yes, lady. Perhaps we can bring down some of those big pheasants in the flats.”

  “Only while in our lands,” Secca reminded the chief archer. “Lady Herene’ s pheasants are for her archers.”

  Elfens grinned. “But, of course.”

  “You’re a rogue, chief archer.”

  “One loyal to Loiseau and to you, lady.”

  Secca shook her head with a quick smile and eased to­ward the stable where Delvor stood on the paving stones beside his mount, a lutar in his hand. “If you finger like so—"

  “Chief Player Delvor!” Secca called cheerily.

  The lank-haired Delvor glanced up from where the lu­tarists had gathered around him. "Lady! We are ready. I was just showing the lutarists—”

  Secca barely held in a grin. “I appreciate your diligence. Perhaps you can show them later. We do have a long ride before us.”

  "Ah... yes, lady.” He bowed.

  Secca turned her mount back in the direction of the front courtyard, and the gates where the lancers of the purple company of Mencha were already mounted in formation.

  The painfully thin captain with an equally thin black mustache eased his mount around to wait for the redheaded sorceress. When she reined up, he inclined his head. “The purple company is ready, lady,”

  “How is Filcar, Quebar?”

  "Well enough to ride, and use a blade.” Quebar smiled. “He will got be so careless in drills again, lady.”

  ‘“I would hope not.”

  “Vyren, he said it best. Some horses have to step into deep water before they would swim.”

  “And what is he saying that you said?" Secca laughed. Vyren and Quebar were cousins, and each was always at­tributing some odd saying to the other.

  Quebar offered an overelaborate shrug. “Perhaps that the only danger a dull blade bears is to its wielder.”

  Or a dull mind. Secca hoped hers remained sharp, both on the journey and once she arrived in Falcor.

  18

  Worlan, Neserea

  In the dull gray morning, a light wind whispers from the northwest, across the cold waters of Bitter Sea. The wind is strong enough to have carried the merchant vessel bearing no ensign to the long pier, but not powerful enough to hamper a speedy docking. The customs’ enu­merator waddles up the gangway, then vanishes into the master’s cabin.

  From the flat roof of the baker’s, across the square from the warehouse, Belmar watches. Behind him, the four play­ers wait, occasionally blowing on their fingers. The two violino players check the tuning on their instruments, while the woodwind player moistens his reed.

  Shortly, maroon-clad troops march down the gangway and south to make their way shoreward along the pier.

  “It won’t be long now,” cautions Belmar. “Stand ready.” The players take up their instruments. Belmar watches the far side of the square, and the narrow street beyond where the maroon-clad troops march quickly toward the warehouse.

  Although the lancers have drawn their blades, they move toward the warehouse door quickly, as though they expect little opposition.

  One of the pair of guards by the iron-gated door sees the oncoming lancers, turns, and sprints down the narrow street away from the oncoming company. The second just stares.

  Belmar gestures toward the four players. “Now!”

  With the notes of the players comes Belmar’s bass voice.

  “Turn each blade to cut its bearer...”

  The Mansuuran captain barely has time to yell, “Treachery!” before his own sabre slashes through his neck.

  “But, of course," murmurs the dark-haired sorcerer after be completes the spell.

  Other blades perform improbable actions upon those who bare them, so swiftly that but few curses or cries echo across the square. The body of the single remain­ing warehouse guard also lies before the iron gate, his neck slashed by his own blade as well.

  Belmar looks at the figures sprawled on the cobble­stones before the warehouse doors, then at the gray-clad figure who has appeared from the shadows of the staircase from the side street below. "That should do. Now we should inform his Mightiness Lord High Coun­selor Hanfor. We know nothing of events in Neserea, of course. We are but loyal subjects, protecting our coast from Mansuuran depredations.”

  “Of course,” echoes jerGilen quietly.

  Belmar turns to the players, and the half-score guards behind them. “You may go back to the hold.”

  The head player nods. The players slip instruments into cases covered with oiled leather, then file down the narrow steps, followed by all but a pair of the guards in dark green tunics.

  Once the roof is clear, except for Belmar’s personal guards, the sorcerer steps to the edge of the roof and turns to jerGlien. “And the golds?”

  “The ship’s master keeps half, remember?”

  “I remember, and you retain a third of the other half.”

  JerGlien smiles modestly.

  “It’s not a bad investment. Sturinn gets back two-thirds of the cost of bribing the Mansuurans; we kill an entire company, which reduces the forces facing the Maitre, and everyone thinks that either Kestrin is bent on conquest or can’t control his own land.” Belmar smiles.

  JerGlien provides a noncommittal shrug.

  “I am sure that is the idea, or something close to it, if not more ingenious.” Bemar’s voice carries more than a trace of amusement. “However, you did prom­ise.”

  “I did, and we do keep our promises. You will recall the small matter of scrolls.”

  “Ah... yes. Tomorrow, they will be dispatched. For the moment, I need to inspect the damage below. I look forward to seeing you then.”

  “Until tomorrow.” The man in gray bows, then slips silently to the steps.

  With a nod to his guards, Belmar follows the other down to the street, where they proceed in different di­rections.

  19

  The wind whistled out of the northeast, chilling Secca as she rode westward out of Sorprat toward Pamr, and toward the holding of Lady Herene that lay north of the town center of Pamr. Absently, as she refastened the top buttons of her riding jacket, the sorceress wondered if young Kysar would be there, or if he were in Fussen with his father, Falar, since Falar was about to turn the holding over formally to his ward and nephew Uslyn on the young lord’s twentieth birthday.

  The death of Uslyn’s older brother, Vlastal, had resulted from another need for sorcery set in the shadows, but not nearly so visible as the incident of the broken bridge at Aroch, Thankfully, Lord Ustal had been so unpopular that no one had looked closely into the snapped crossbow catch, and the frayed cable that had shredded his throat— or the consumption that had claimed Vlastal and had run its course well before Ustal’s death. Still, luck had aided Jolyn, luck and the fact that no one in Fussen had ever seen the sorceress.

  Secca straightened in the saddle. The gray’s hoofs clopped on the smooth stones of the road, the sound sharp despite the low moaning of the wind that seemed to fore­shadow a long and cold winter. The cold haze above the horizon was thick enough to have swallowed the disk of the bright moon Clearsong, although it would be setting shortly in any case.

  Beside Secca rode
Richina, silent for the moment, wrapped in a blue leather jacket similar to Secca’ s green jacket. Before them rode Quebar and Savyn. one of the squad leaders of the purple company. At the head of the column was a single lancer bearing the blue banner with the two gold musical notes upon it that signified that Secca was a sorceress of Defalk—the banner that had been Anna’s. Palian and Delvor followed Secca and Richina.

  Secca’ s eyes dropped from the haze above the horizon to the broad road that stretched—straight as a quarrel— from Sorprat to Pamr. The stones were even and level, and showed no sign of wear, and the road itself was a constant eight yards wide—enough for the largest wagons to pass side by side. A faint smile crossed Secca’s lips. The low­land section had been one of the last paved between Men­cha and Falcar, and it had been the first major sorcery Anna had let Secca do. More than fifteen years later, her work looked almost new. Then, so did the roads done by Anna, Clayre, and Jolyn. They still hadn’t finished the net­work laid out by Anna, but there were completed metaled roads running from Falcor to the borders of Defalk in all the cardinal directions, as well as a few others.

  Before long, Secca would be working with Richina on road- and bridge-building, perhaps initially on the last sec­tion of to road between Mencha and the River Chean bridge. With only six deks or so to complete, perhaps she and Richina could finish it before summer. The northern section, from the north side of the River Clean to the Fal River and Elhi, had been one of the first roads paved through sorcery.

  “Lady, how much longer?” asked Richina quietly.

  “Two glasses, if we’re not stopped in the town.” She smiled. “Kysar may be in Fussen, you know, for the cel­ebration?"

  “He’s not for me, even if mother has a soft spot for Lady Herene,” Richina replied.

  “She was your mother’s first warder and tutor.”

  ‘They’ve remained friends, and I like Kysar well enough, but he’s too charming.”

  Like his father, Secca thought, nodding, reflecting that Anna had been smart to keep Falar from ever controlling a holding directly.

  “Irenia is the one I’d rather see. She’s like Lady Herene,” Richina added.

  “I thought she was in Falcor.”

  “She left. Her last scroll said Counselor Dythya told her she was ready to work as an assistant saalmeister. She’s hoping Lord Tiersen or Lord Kinor will let her train in their holds.”

  “Something’s headed our way, lady,” offered Quebar.

  Secca squinted, trying to make out the object on the road ahead, an object that resolved itself into a large long-haul trader’s wagon, one moving quickly eastward. Drawn by six rough-coated dray horses, the heavy trader’s wagon rolled toward Secca’s vanguard. Then, as though the driver saw the golden notes upon the blue banner, the wagon slowed immediately, and the driver edged it to the left.

  “Sorceress.” The bearded driver bowed his bead. “Our respects.” Beside him, the armed guard also inclined his head.

  “Thank you,” Secca responded cheerfully. “A good journey to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Even the pair of guards on the rear seat nodded as they passed, and Secca returned the gesture.

  The legend painted on the side of the long wagon was simple, gold letters set within a green rectangular frame: "Teryn & Son, Factors in Spirits, Falcor.”

  Secca nodded, as behind her the wagon again picked up speed, its iron-bound wheels rumbling on the hard stone, on its way toward Mencha, the Sand Pass, and then into Ebra. While the road was stone-paved only for roughly thirty deks into Ebra, the route farther eastward was well-traveled enough that it had been packed into a hard sur­face—except in the early spring or after heavy rains.

  The sorceress shifted her weight in the saddle again, a saddle that was getting harder with each dek she rode.

  20

  In the late afternoon, under a still-cloudless sky, Secca reined up the gray mare in the liedburg courtyard in Falcor. She was scarcely surprised that Lord Robero had not come down to greet her and her party upon her arrival. The silver-haired Dythya, who had been Counselor of Fi­nance ever since Secca could remember, stood on the mounting block by the main west entrance.

  “Greetings. Lady Secca.” Dythya’ s smile was as friendly as ever.

  “It’s good to see you again.” The courtyard was warmer than the open road or the streets of Falcor had been, and Secca unfastened the green leather riding-jacket.

  “Lord Robero is engaged, but he will be free shortly and would hope you would stop by the audience chamber.” Dythya smiled again, professionally, rather than person­ally.

  Understanding, Secca grinned. "I will indeed.”

  “I will convey that.” Dythya’ s smile broadened.

  Secca urged the mare toward the stables. Just ahead, the dark-haired Clayre stood by the second west entrance to the main section of the liedburg, smiling and raising an arm to greet Secca as the younger sorceress rode toward the stables.

  By the time Secca had unloaded her gear, then waited for Richina to do the same, Clayre had crossed the damp paving stones to meet them. “You still look the same.”

  “So do you,” Secca replied to the taller sorceress.

  “You look older.” Clayre added, with a grin to Richina. The apprentice bowed slightly, clearly unsure of how to respond to Clayre’s pleasantry.

  “The older fosterling boys, especially those from the north, will drool, but don’t mind them,” Clayre added. “They’re still not used to... Falcor.”

  Richina nodded, trying to keep from frowning, as the three walked from the stables to the side door and then up the stairs to the second floor corridor that held the major chambers of the liedburg. Behind them followed Quebar and two lancers.

  Clayre led the way to the chamber that had been Anna’s, in the middle of the eastern side of the liedburg, where she opened the door. “Lord Robero suggested that it be for the Sorceress of Loiseau.” Her voice carried a tone of both concern and apology.

  “He wasted little time, did he not?”

  The dark-haired older sorceress offered a nervous smile. As Quebar cleared his throat, Secca turned to the lancer captain.

  Quebar nodded at the pair of lancers. “Dyvan and Eas­lon will be your guards.”

  “I’m sorry. You have other things to do.” Secca inclined her head to Quebar. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  Quebar bowed, before turnng and heading toward the stairs.

  “We need to talk. I will be back in a moment” Clayre nodded to Richina. “Your quarters are in the south tower, with the other fosterlings.”

  Secca watched for a moment as Clayre led the sandy-haired apprentice down the corridor, then looked at the older and shorter lancer. “Dyvan, I’ll be unpacking until Lady Clayre returns.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  Secca smiled, then turned and closed the door. She car­ried the saddlebags to the footchest, where she deposited them, before setting the lutar case on the bed, then unfas­tening the sabre scabbard and laying blade and sheath on the footchest as well.

  The chamber looked little different from what it had before harvest—or a score of years before—with the high bed, the small desk, the narrow window, and the attached bath chamber.

  Clayre had her permanent quarters farther north along the corridor, in the larger chambers that had once belonged to Lady Essan, who had died almost a score of years be­fore. Robero, of course, had combined the three southeast corner chambers into a suite for himself and Alyssa.

  Secca had hung her riding jacket in the small armoire, washed up, after heating the cold water in the basin with the elemental spell, and was brushing her hair when there was a knock on the heavy door.

  "Come in."

  ‘Clayre stepped inside. “I am sorry. About the chamber. But the liedburg grows ever more crowded.”

  “You aren’t the one who made the choice.” Secca shrugged. “I know I can’t grieve forever, but..." She paused. “If I don’t take the ch
amber. I’ll be seen as petty and foolish.”

  “He was going to give it to Jolyn. We both protested.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was another silence. “We do need to talk.” Clayre inclined her head toward the chamber beyond the door and across the hall—the one that held the reflecting pool cre­ated by Anna’s sorcery.

  ‘It’s still shielded?" asked Secca.

  “Yes. Whatever she did affected the stones themselves.” Clayre opened the heavy oak door and motioned.