The Shadow Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The third spell was to find who created the damage. That revealed a fleet of nearly two score ships—war­ships of Sturinnese design, sailing in formation, north­ward, from what Secca could tell from the lighting. With no land in sight, there was little way for her to determine just where that fleet was headed, except that it meant ill for some land.

  “An invasion fleet...” She shook her head. Clayre was somewhere enroute to Neserea. Jolyn was traveling back to Falcor, if she hadn’t deliberately mislaid or “misunderstood” the messages sent to her.

  What about Hadrenn and Ebra? And the troublesome Mynntar? First, Mynntar.

  The next image in the pool was that of at all and broad-shouldered and clean-shaven blonde man, wear­ing a burgundy tunic, riding at the head of a very long column, a smile on his face.

  Somehow, Mynntar’s smile seemed even more dis­honest than when Secca had studied him earlier. Was that because of the open honesty of Lythner’s smile? Secca shook her head. Lythner might be honest and warm, but those qualities were not enough, and she hoped she would not find herself settling for such.

  It took her several more attempts to scry enough of the column to determine that the lancers were riding westward along a river, and that at least five companies were clad in the white tunics of Sturinn. Almost as dis­turbing were the dozen wagons following the lancers.

  After releasing the last scrying image, she poured the orderspelled water prepared by Richina into the goblet and took several long swallows. There was no way to reach Clayre, but she owed Robero a message with the news. It might arrive scorched on his conference table, but arrive it would.

  She sat at the desk and began to write on the heavy parchment. When she was finished, she scanned the lines.

  Most noble Lord of Defalk...

  ...the harbor of Narial lies in ruins, de­stroyed by a giant wave raised through Darksong ...Darksong undertaken by Sea-Priests...A fleet of near-on two score vessels sails north­ward toward Liedwahr...

  ... Mynntar leads a large force of armsmen toward Synek... Inasmuch as you have already requested my travel to see Lord Hadrenn... as Protector of the East, I will do as I can to support Lord Hadrenn... ensure that Dolov remains a holding loyal to you ...

  She reread the scroll, then rolled it and sealed it. Then she placed it in the copper traveling tube, the tube lined with the fuzzy mineral Anna had called asbestos.

  With a long deep breath, she picked up the lutar.

  After dispatching the scroll, she found her entire body shivering. But then, that was expected. Parchment had once been living and even sending it was a form of Darksong, although it was encased in metal. A minor form, but Darksong, nonetheless—although many forms of sorcery bordered Darksong, and the line between Clearsong and Darksong was far less distinct than even most sorcerers or sorceresses would admit.

  Secca sank onto the hard surface of the wooden desk chair. You haven‘t done that much scrying in seasons. Not in so short a time, at least, and the message scroll hadn’t helped. Then, everything associated with sorcery had its costs—as Anna had so often emphasized.

  She sat for a time before the small desk drinking water from the pitcher and slowly eating the hard bis­cuits, that Anna had always insisted be kept in the tin by the reflecting pool.

  Finally, she rose and walked down the corridor, stop­ping at the door of the first players’ practice room, empty except for the chief player.

  Palian turned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. The Sea-Priests have raised a giant wave that has destroyed Narial, all except for the bridge Anna built. They have an invasion fleet somewhere south of Liedwahr, and Mynntar has raised armsmen and is riding toward Synek. There’s plotting and a pos­sible uprising being planned in Neserea, and the old Liedfuhr of Mansuur died less than half a season ago, and there are probably plots against Kestrin as well.”

  “And Wei?”

  “The Council won’t make trouble for Defalk, but I can’t see them helping much either.”

  “Do you still plan to go to Synek?”

  “More than ever. We’ll take all the players and all but one company of lancers. We can do something about Mynntar. I don’t know that I can do anything about a Sturinnese fleet.”

  “Where will they strike? The Sturinnese?”

  Secca spread her hands. “Dumar is not so strong as it should be, and with Narial destroyed, Dumar would be easiest at first. But the Sturinnese have disliked the Matriarchs of Ranuak for generations, and they could also attack the Free City of Elahwa to support Mynn­tar.”

  “Ranuak or Dumar,” Palian suggested. ‘They gain little from Elahwa.”

  “We will see.”

  “I will refresh the players with the battle spells when they return.”

  ‘Thank you.” Secca offered a smile to the graying chief player before she turned.

  Outside, in the blustery gray afternoon, she mounted the gray and rode back toward the open gates of Lo­iseau, followed as always by four lancers in green. Si­lently, she rode upon the stones of the side lane to the main road leading to the gates, then through the gates and the north courtyard to the stables. There, she dis­mounted.

  “You’d be looking grim, lady,” offered Vyren as he took the gray mare’s reins after Secca dismounted. “I’d be wagering it not be the weather.”

  “You’d be right.” Realizing the grimness of her tone, she added quickly, “I’m sorry, Vyren. I hadn’t planned on all that has happened. It will be a hard winter, and a harder spring.” She forced a smile. “We’ll do what we can."

  Vyren nodded sagely. “One doesn’t lose a great lady often.”

  “No. Her loss is greater than any realized.” That was certainly turning out to be true.

  From the stables, Secca walked through the open iron gate into the rear bailey—the one she and Anna had added with sorcery ten years earlier—and toward the large structure set before the westernmost wall.

  The dull impact of a hammer against hot metal filled the chill air of late fall as Secca stepped into the smithy. She stood well back from the forge, watching as Belan turned hot iron on the anvil and, with deft hammer blows, fullered the circular shape into a thinner and broader form.

  Only when he had taken the tongs and replaced the cooling iron in the furnace did she speak. “How goes it, master smith?”

  Turning to the sorceress, Belan blotted his brow with the back of his forearm. “Would that I were a sorcerer, Lady Secca. Would that I were..."

  “Sorcery does not work well for what you do. The Lady Anna tried, and so have I.” She shrugged. “It takes hard work to forge what will change Defalk.”

  “I’d be knowing that. The parts, they be straight enough, but the seals... fitting them so that the steam does not burst forth...“

  The smith gestured to the model of the engine upon the rear work shelf—the one that lay in pieces. “Even from it came steam.”

  “I know. We did tell you that you would be paid well—because the work would be hard.”

  ‘That you did, Lady Secca. That you did.” Belan laughed. “I have had to learn casting, and casting iron such as this...“ He shrugged. After a moment he added. “We will need more iron soon.”

  Secca nodded. “We’ll go to the Sand Pass mine on the way to Synek. You can bring back what we take from the hills. You may have to use some of it for the special arrows and same for blades.”

  “Folk are talking about fighting. Not in a score of years..."

  “There will be fighting,” Secca admitted. “We will try to keep it from becoming war.”

  “You sorceresses will?”

  She nodded.

  Belan looked toward the iron in the forge, then back at the redhead, questioningly.

  “Liedwahr will still need engines such as those, per­haps more than we thought.”

  “Be seasons yet, lady.”

  “I know.” Secca smiled gently.

  When Belan turned to the forge once more, Seeca slipped from
the smithy.

  As she walked back toward her room to ponder all that was happening, thoughts swirled through her head. She needed to review the spells to use against thunderdrums and Darksong, and all sorts of other spells Anna had developed, spells unused in years. She couldn’t count on there not being a Sea-Priest with the Stuin­nese lancers.

  She also needed to think about how far she dared to go. Anna had been regent when she had fought in Ebra, and Secca was far from a regent. She was Protector of the East, which allowed her to support and defend Hadrenn, but then what?

  Would she have any choices? Would she recognize them?

  28

  Wearing the heavy leather trousers, the padded leather tunic, and carrying the cumbersome practice helmet, Secca walked under a leaden gray sky toward the small walled courtyard beyond the lancers’ barracks. From the worn brown leather belt at her left side hung the battered scabbard that held her unedged practice sabre.

  As she neared the archway to the practice yard, she could hear the sound of metal an metal, the scuffing of boots on the stone pavement, panting, more than a few grunts, and an occasional mutter.

  “Lady’s coming, Easlon said. ..“

  "... get one of the new ones to spar with her..."

  "... don’t want any bruises, Gorken?”

  "...can’t win. Hard to touch her...strikes hard... and if you do hit her... then what?”

  “She laughs.... tries harder... better ‘n a lot of lords.”

  Secca smiled and stepped through the archway. Almost a score of armsmen were practicing, half that number paired off and sparring with each other. Two were stood under the overhanging eaves in front of the armorer’s shop, watching the ancient Albero while he used the pedal grind­stone, sharpening one of their sabres.

  Everything stopped, and the lancers turned toward Secca. Secca didn’t see any of the officers, but she often didn’t if she came later in the day, since most had consorts.

  “Lady?’ asked Westl, one of the senior squad leaders, who had clearly been instructing a younger lancer.

  “I need to sharpen my very rusty skills with a blade, Westl. We are leaving tomorrow.” Secca smiled. “I’m sure there is someone here who won’t mind.” She looked across the lancers who had been sparring, then nodded toward the dark-haired Gorkon, who reminded her vaguely of Lyth­ner. “Gorkon? Would you spar with me?”

  Gorkon bowed slightly. “As you wish, lady.”

  Secca could sense the suppressed laughter. She was al­ways amazed at how often people were surprised when she said something based on what she had overheard, thinking that she had somehow used sorcery instead of her ears.

  She smiled pleasantly. “I realize I offer a smaller target than you seek.” She shrugged expressively. “But since everyone is larger than I...”

  That drew a few smiles, even from Gorkon.

  She pulled on the practice helmet—her one concession to sorcerous practicality, since a blow to her throat or face would have consequences that she couldn’t really afford, especially with the tasks before her. Then she stepped for­ward into the nearest empty practice circle and drew the sabre, setting her feet. The blade felt heavier than usual in her hand. Was it tiredness? That was something she also couldn’t afford.

  “Go on,” Secca suggested to the lancer.

  Gorkon’s first move was little more than a halfhearted feint, as if he really didn’t wish to strike at her.

  Secca slammed the edge of her shorter sabre against his, then forced his blade down, and thwacked the bigger man across his right shoulder with the flat of the sabre, letting her blade return to a guard position. She tried to remember to keep her weight balanced.

  His next moves were neither feints nor weak, and Secca had to fall back parrying the furious slashes, waiting... until Garkon overextended himself. Her blade slammed down on the back of his practice gauntlet, and he lurched backward, barely holding on to his blade.

  As Secca stepped forward, her boot skidded on the sandy surface of the stone. Instead of trying to catch her balance, which would have gotten her spitted in a real fight she ducked into a roll, and came up to the side with the sabre ready.

  Gorkon’s mouth was still open when she slammed the side of his arm with the flat of the sabre once more. His blade clanked on the stones.

  “You’re too kind, Gorkon. What would you do if you had to fight a woman trained by the Matriarch, or the Trad­ers of Wei?"

  The lancer rubbed his arm before bending to retrieve the blade. “I be remembering that, lady.”

  A few more murmurs whispered from the watching lancers.

  "...like a cat...”

  "... wildcat...red hair and all...”

  She ignored the words and gestured with the sabre. “Would you like a turn, Rukor?’

  “Begging your pardon, lady... but I fear you be far better than me.”

  “I doubt that, but you won’t improve sparring with someone worse.”

  For all his protestations, Rukor was good with the blade, and his weapon was a good span and a half longer than Secca’s sabre.

  Still... she managed to avoid all but a few blows, but those would be bruises by evening, as would be the shoul­der she’d bit on the stone rolling when she had slipped. She bruised all too easily, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that.

  By the time she was tired, and felt she had had the exercise she needed, despite the coolness of the day, and the chill wind out of the northeast, her hair was plastered flat with sweat and her undertunic was dripping.

  After pulling off the practice helms and sheathing the sabre, she inclined her head to Rukor, and then Gorkon. “Thank you both. I needed the practice and the exercise.”

  “Our pleasure, lady,” offered Rukor, then Gorkon, a mo­ment later.

  Secca listened to the hint murmurs as she turned and began to walk toward the archway, and back to the main building of the keep—for a bath before she dealt with the other problems she had to clear up before leaving Loiseau.

  "... know any other sorceresses—or ladies—spar with their lancers?”

  "...why she do it?”

  "...a fool, Nyrtal.. . She goes into battle... only do so much sorcery, you know... needs to be able to defend herself... All the lords do... why not her?"

  "... seems. . . strange.. ."

  It didn’t seem strange to Secca. She could still remem­ber Lysara and Ytrude using blades to defend her when Hoede and Lord Dannel’s armsmen had attacked Falcor. If Anna hadn’t had them trained with blades, Secca would have died. On that night, Secca had made up her mind that she would master both blade and sorcery. While she would never be a true master blade, she wouldn’t be an easy target, either. And neither would Richina or the other ap­prentices, for Anna hadn’t stinted on their training, and Secca intended to carry on that example as well.

  29

  Mansuus, Mansuur

  The Liedfuhr stands at the closed window, looking out into the gray afternoon where ice pellets bounce off the railings of the balcony beyond. The chill of the day seeps through the windows. At the knock on the study door, he turns.

  “Yes?’

  The graying Bassil steps through the door and bows. “You had summoned me, ser?”

  “Has Overcaptain Tein arrived in Mansuus yet?’

  “What do you plan, sire?” Bassil’s eyebrows lifted. “If I might inquire.”

  “I don’t know if the man is guilty, or innocent and incompetent, but he should have had same idea of what the problems were in Hafem”

  “Oh?’ Bassil’s voice is neutral.

  “We lost a company of armsmen. Someone paid off the captain, or promised to, and probably the men as well. Then they were murdered through sorcery in Neserea, and all of Liedwahr is thinking I’m either making a power play or so ineffectual that I can’t control my own armamen. It reeks of the Sea-Priests, but there’s not a single bit of proof, and there won’t be, as we both know.”

  “You do not think that the overcap
tain can provide such?"

  “I doubt it. The stupidest overcaptain wouldn’t remain in Mansuur if he were a party to something like this. And if he’d found out, he would have fled or let me know. So I doubt he knows anything. But he should. If the over-captain doesn’t know his officers well enough to anticipate that, it can only mean two things. Either the promised payoff was extraordinarily high or the morale of the men was very low.”

  “A high payoff to the captain doesn’t make his superior officer incompetent or guilty, sire.”

  “Oh?” asks Kestrin. “Would you ever have been able to afford that summer cottage in Cealur without the golds from your consort’s parents’ bond? Or would you have bought that matched pair of grays if you’d lost that wager to Commander Grymm? Or would your consort have silk outfits if her sister weren’t consorted to a cloth factor?”