“This ground has not seen snow,” replied Alcaren. “Otherwise, the grass would be more matted and flattened. Yet the wind blows chill enough to have frozen the road.” He looked sideways at Secca. “Could you do such sorcery?”
“Not without much effort and study, and perhaps not then, but the Evult did, with the massed voices of his Dark Monks. That was how he created the years of drought that almost conquered Defalk. It could be that the Sturinnese could do such with voice and drums.” She paused before continuing. “I would think they would have to be much closer to the Westfels to create that kind of sorcery. It may be that we face merely unseasonable cold.”
“Most unseasonable,” confirmed Alcaren, his eyes going to the road ahead.
A pair of riders—one a SouthWoman in crimson and blue and one a lancer of Loiseau in green—rode back toward the vanguard of the column. Wilten eased his mount onto the shoulder of the road, and after inclining his head to Secca, rode ahead to join Delcetta in meeting the scouts.
“What do you think?” asked Alcaren.
“The scouts have seen little, else they would be hurrying,” replied Secca.
“According to the glass, the Sturinnese have just left Dumaria on the river road to Envaryl. They may not even reach Fehern’s forces, such as they are, before we do.” Alcaren frowned. “I like that not.”
“Nor I.” Secca shook her head. “Yet the glass shows nothing untoward in Envaryl, save that the disguised Sea-Priest still advises Fehern.”
“Would that we knew exactly how he advises Fehern.” Alcaren snorted.
“He will offer what appears in Fehern’s advantage, but is not. We just do not know how he couches such advice.” Secca broke off as Delcetta and Wilten rode back and swung their mounts onto the shoulder of the road to ride alongside Secca and Alcaren.
“The scouts report that there is a hamlet less than five deks ahead,” Wilten reminded Secca. “It is empty.”
That didn’t surprise Secca. Every town or hamlet they had entered in the three days since they had left Stygia had been hastily abandoned. “Will it provide enough shelter against the cold and wind?”
“There are several large barns and a half-score of dwellings,” Delcetta added. “It will be cramped, but all will be out of the weather. The scouts say there are some animals that are stragglers from those the peasants drove away with them.”
“If you can round them up, go ahead,” Secca said.
As Delcetta and Wilten nodded and rode back to the vanguard, Secca shook her head. While she disliked foraging off those who had little, circumstances were leaving her little choice. But then, it seemed that very little in dealing with the Sturinnese left her much choice.
“Lady?” asked Richina, easing her mount forward. “Why do the Dumarans flee us? We have done them no ill.”
“Not in more than a score of years,” Secca replied. “But Lady Anna did invade Dumar, if not this part of the land.”
“Peasants fear any lancers. Almost always, they will lose stock and provisions. They might well flee before Fehern’s forces as well,” Alcaren added.
“Even in Ranuak?” asked Secca with a laugh.
“We have far fewer lancers,” he countered. “And…there is so little fertile land that the Matriarch cannot countenance such. We must trade or fish for our sustenance, and that is why all appreciate what you did to break the blockade.”
“Even the Ladies of the Shadows?” pressed Secca.
“They are governed by fear, and little more.”
“Fear is a dangerous mistress,” mused Secca, wondering, as she often had since the attempt of the Ladies to assassinate her, how the fruits of sorcery could possibly be as bad as the enslavement of every woman in Liedwahr in chains that a Sturinnese victory would bring. How could any sorcery she might use create something that bad?
15
The dwelling was that of a more prosperous peasant farmer, constructed mostly of fired mud bricks, with a large common room that formed an “L” with the kitchen, and a separate bedroom that held two beds, a large one, and a small cotlike one set against the wall. Despite the chilly air, the cottage held the odor of dirt, rancid grease, and mold.
In the common room, seven figures gathered around the long and battered wooden table, with its two wooden benches. On one side were Secca, Alcaren, and Richina. Holding her lutar, Secca stood between and behind Alcaren and Richina, who sat on one bench. On the other bench sat the two chief players and the two remaining overcaptains.
The fire in the wall hearth took the chill off the room, but little more, as the wind howled around the cottage. A single candle sat in a battered holder in the middle of the table, beside the traveling scrying glass set there. The room was dim in the late afternoon, where, outside the cottage, high gray clouds brought twilight even before the sun had set behind the Westfels. Inside, the puddles of light cast by the fire and the sole flickering candle barely lifted the gloom.
All seven studied the image in the glass, which showed a force of perhaps two companies of Sturinnese. The riders wore heavy white leather jackets with fur-lined caps. Despite the cold, and with no visible orders, they rode in formation, exactly two by two. Another group of riders followed the main body, with packhorses behind them.
In the dimness Secca squinted at the glass. The objects carried by the packhorses appeared to be cylindrical. She moistened her lips.
“Those are quivers lashed behind their saddles,” Alcaren said, gesturing toward one of the riders, “and those are bows covered in oilskins.”
“The riders are archers, and they’re followed by a small group of drummers and players.” After a moment, Secca added, “They’re headed toward us, but they came out of Narial, it seems.”
When the others had studied the image for what seemed long enough, Secca sang the release couplet, then turned from the glass on the rough wooden table and walked toward the window, halting as she realized that the inner shutters were solid wood, and closed. Even with both inner and outer shutters closed, cold air seeped into the small cottage. She turned, still holding the lutar in her left hand, and nodded slowly. “We’ll need spells, new ones.”
“Even with your current spells, lady, they cannot stand against you and nine companies of lancers,” Richina replied.
“That is not their intent,” Alcaren said. “They do not intend to get closer than a dek, if that.”
Richina glanced from Alcaren to Secca, then back to the broad-shouldered overcaptain and sorcerer. “But how can they…”
“The arrows,” Secca said. “They will use drums and Darksong to guide the arrows against us.”
“They must know you can stop that,” protested the younger sorceress.
“Do they?” asked Alcaren. “Lady Secca has not shown any sorcery that carries that far, not on land, and not against an enemy she has not seen on a battlefield. Besides, it will cost them little to try, and could cost us dearly.”
“It will also reveal what we can do and cannot do,” Secca said slowly, “before they must face us in a full battle.”
“Not if none of them escapes,” said Palian, her voice flat.
The sorceresses and Alcaren looked to the chief player. Palian remained silent, her eyes meeting Secca’s.
“It is hard to project the firesong that far away,” Richina said.
“There must be other spells,” Palian said, her eyes remaining on Secca.
Secca said nothing, but Palian continued to hold her eyes.
Richina glanced from Secca to Palian and back again. Delvor looked down at the table. Wilten appeared to be looking at no one and nothing, while a faint smile played across Delcetta’s face. The faintest furrow appeared on Alcaren’s brow.
“There may be,” Secca finally temporized, thinking of the notes she had taken from the sealed strongroom two seasons before, notes she had not wished to study again. “There may be.”
Palian nodded. “One seldom regrets trying; one always regrets not having tried.”
“Unless one dies because of either trying or not trying,” Alcaren said, his tone conveying an archness that Secca could tell was meant to provoke a bit of levity. “The problem is that you often don’t know which is better.”
Secca laughed, softly, but without humor. “I know which is better, but it’s not much better.”
“Anything is better than allowing the Sea-Priests to take Liedwahr,” Palian said mildly.
Wilten cleared his throat.
Everyone looked at the Defalkan overcaptain.
“Ah…you talk of spells. I have simpler questions. How far away are these archers, and do you plan that we should ride to meet them or wait here where we have shelter?”
Alcaren laughed, a sound open and without bitterness. “You’re right, Wilten.” He looked to Secca. “A day and a half, I would say. What do you think?”
“About the same.” Secca looked to Delcetta and Wilten. “You suggest we let them come to us, and let our lancers and mounts rest?”
“If you can perform sorcery near here,” replied Delcetta. “The hills to the east…would they suffice?”
At her words, Wilten nodded in affirmation.
“They would.” Secca glanced to the shuttered windows. “It would be better to have both players and lancers rested.” And, perhaps…perhaps she could find a spell that would stop the archers without dipping too deeply into the spellsongs Anna had prepared.
16
Mansuus, Mansuur
Kestrin stands on the balcony outside the private study of the Liedfuhr. He does not wear a cloak, despite the fat flakes of late-winter or early-spring snow that drift past him. His eyes follow the river, still ice-covered, that flows westward to the port of Wharsus, and there, into Defuhr Bay.
To his left, also wearing neither jacket nor cloak, stands Bassil, in the maroon of a lancer officer. For a moment, as each flake strikes his tunic, it stands out before melting and leaving a small spot of darkness on the fabric.
“What now?” asks Kestrin.
“Your seers report that the Sturinnese fleet has sailed from the Ostisles.”
“It will not arrive in time to stop the shadowsinger from destroying the Sturinnese forces in Dumar.”
“If she can indeed do that,” replies Bassil. “There are more than a half-score of Sea-Priest sorcerers with the Sturinnese forces, and all have players and drummers.”
“She has already destroyed more than that, has she not?” Kestrin’s eyebrows lift. “Or have I been misled in the reports that have come to me?”
“She has, but it may take her much time to retake Dumar. She landed at a small fishing harbor to the southwest, and now rides across the high plains to aid Fehern. It will be at least a week before she can reach Envaryl. That is if she does not have to fight any skirmishes along the way, and if the weather holds.”
“How does that change anything? Once the snows melt, hopefully in the next three weeks, we can still send our lancers into Neserea to support Aerlya and Annayal. The Sturinnese will be in the south, contesting with the shadowsinger.”
“You may not wish to send them through the Mittpass, sire.” Bassil’s tone is apologetic. “Even when the snows melt.”
Kestrin turns and faces the lancer overcaptain. “And why might that be?”
“Your seers fear that the Sturinnese have set their course for Mansuur, not Nordwei, or Neserea, and certainly not for Dumar.”
“They fear? Do they not know?” snaps the Liedfuhr.
“The course is northerly, and that would be the same at the beginning for a destination of Mansuur or Neserea…or Nordwei. But the seers have glimpsed maps of Defuhr Bay.”
“Do you believe them?”
“I was doubtful, sire. I asked them to scry for me, and I also saw such maps on the chart tables.”
“That can only be a bluff,” Kestrin says. “Why would they leave such out, except for us to see? It must be a bluff.”
“Bluff or not, can you afford to leave Wharsus undefended—or lightly defended?” Bassil uses the back of his hand to blot away the water that has come from the snow melting in his short hair and that has begun to ooze down his face toward his eyes.
“What other companies can we summon to Wharsus?” Kestrin’s voice bears both an edge and a hint of resignation.
“You can bring those from Hafen and Cealur, and detail most of those here in Mansuus to Wharsus.”
“That won’t be enough,” Kestrin says.
“If we took two thousand from the five thousand you have garrisoned in Unduval, we could still leave seventy-five companies there to enter Neserea—when the snows melt. That would be enough to keep Belmar from taking Esaria—if they are careful to strike only those forces that are not supported by sorcery and take care to avoid the sorcerer,” suggests Bassil.
“That will not be so easy as it sounds.” Kestrin gives a dramatic shrug. “Yet what else can I do?”
“Hope that the shadowsinging Sorceress Protector of the East and the Sorceress of Defalk will be more effective than they have been…and trust in the harmonies.”
“Send a message to the Council of Wei,” Kestrin suggests, “telling them what you have discovered—except that you might tell them that the Sturinnese fleet could easily be headed to their shores.”
“It will be difficult to get a messenger there, sire. The Bitter Sea remains frozen, and no passes are open in the Westfels. We can send a ship to Elahwa and hope that the Sand Pass will be open—but that will take weeks, and will not arrive until long after the Sea-Priest fleet does.”
“Forget the messenger. We must trust that their seers will see what ours have seen.” The Liedfuhr shakes his head. “Everywhere, I must trust others. Is there nothing else I can do?”
Bassil remains silent, even as he blots more water from his forehead.
“Is there nothing?”
“I would not suggest anything, sire, merely to provide an appearance. You can but protect your land, and aid your sister as you can. The snows in the Mittpass melt earlier than all others, and far earlier than the sea ice breaks in the Bitter Sea. You might consider having provisions to send to the Sorceress Protector of the East, should she defeat the Sturinnese in Dumar and start to ride northward into Neserea.”
“I should support her, riding into…” Kestrin laughs. “What you are telling me is that she is my sole hope of preserving Annayal’s succession.”
“Yes, sire. Only she has the knowledge of the Great Sorceress. Whether she has the strength and the will to use such…that we can but see.”
“We will see.” Kestrin looks to the river for a long moment before turning back. “We have more than a few orders to draft to redeploy forces, do we not?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Best we get on with it.” Kestrin motions for the overcaptain to reenter the study, then follows him, closing the door firmly behind himself and stamping his boots on the maroon mat inside the door.
17
In the midmorning, Secca sat in the middle of the battered wooden bench, with scraps of rough brown paper stacked around her on the table. She massaged her forehead with her left hand, blinking eyes that were reddened with the effort on concentrating in the dim light, then tried to hold a sneeze. “Kkkk…chew!”
She rubbed her nose.
“You’re not getting a chill, are you?” Alcaren sat at the corner of the table farthest from Secca, facing away from her, lumand in hand. On his corner of the table were two sheets of the brown paper with notes, and a grease marker beside them.
“No. It’s something in here. When I go outside, I’m fine.” Secca looked at the notes she had made, then the sheets of paper she had taken from the large envelope Anna had labeled “Armageddon.”
“You can’t exactly read through those outside.”
“No.” What troubled Secca, more than when Anna had explained the file, was the understanding that she might have to use the spells—and that the alternative of not using them would mean her defeat an
d the fall of Liedwahr.
“You may never need these spells, Secca,” Anna had said. “I hope you never do. But if you do…and if you use them, Erde will never be the same because everyone will see what sorcery can truly do.”
Secca picked up the sheet before her, and slowly read through the spell, as well as the musical notation, which indicated that the spell melody was based on one of the simpler fabrication spells that most players knew.
Remove the air and in emptiness hold fast
till—and all within breathe their last…
Anna’s gracefully angular writing noted, “This is for use against sorcerers. I doubt any sorcerer can sing without air to breathe, and without air there isn’t a spell that can carry.”
Secca winced and leafed to the next spell, a long one she didn’t remember seeing.
Hydrogen to hydrogen, fuse in pressured desire,
oxygen free to sear just like the sun’s fire…
The note below was long and cryptic, with words and phrases that Secca didn’t understand at all, except for the last words. “If you don’t understand this one completely, don’t use it. Either it won’t work, or it will turn whatever you direct it against into a blast of fire hotter than the center of the sun. Don’t sing it unless you’re behind three feet of stone and more than three deks away. Even so, it could kill you and everyone around you. This is only to destroy an enemy when you can’t possibly escape.”
Secca shuddered. Why hadn’t she noticed that spell? She turned to the next.
Magma, magma, rise in tubes from the mantle deep below…
The explanation of that was worse than the one before, perhaps because this explanation Secca understood. She’d talked about the creation of the Zauberinfeuer with Anna, and about the Circle of Fire in Mansuur, and even the glowing mountains of Sturinn.
“With each spell you become more ashen,” Alcaren observed. “And with each you sigh more loudly. Surely, those spells cannot be so tiresome.”
Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 8