“Not tiresome. Terrible. You should read them,” Secca suggested. “Read this one, and Anna’s notes.” She thrust the two sheets at her consort.
Alcaren read the age-yellowed sheet, a parchment probably dating from Anna’s early years as regent. Finally, he looked up. He swallowed. “I read the words, but they mean nothing. That is, except for the last part, and that is indeed terrible.”
Secca nodded.
“None of this she ever used?”
“Nothing as fearsome as that one. Some of the others, I do not know. I don’t know of a time when she did, but she didn’t tell me everything, especially when I was young and learning sorcery. After her first years as regent, as I told you, she engaged in more shadow sorcery. Because it was in the shadows, few would even know that such sorcery had been practiced.”
“The Ladies of the Shadows have more to fear than I would have thought,” Alcaren said slowly.
“If you’d read all of these, you’d understand more.”
“Did you not know—about these?”
Secca laughed, ruefully. “Of course I did. I used one of them to kill the sailors and lancers on the Sturinnese ships we captured for the Matriarch. That was bad enough, as you know. I’d hoped not to use more. It’s one thing when you read something, no matter how terrible it might be, and another when you look at it and think that you may have to sing it to save yourself or your forces or your land.”
She extended her hand and took back the two sheets from Alcaren, easing them all into the folder and closing it. “For a time, I will try my own efforts.”
Alcaren looked down at the paper before him. “Mine are child’s rhymes against yours.”
“You’ll do better with practice.”
“Perchance.”
Secca looked at the blank sheet before her.
Archers…archers? What other spell did Secca have that could strike at a distance, that would not be so terrible as those Anna had developed? Secca had done it with the Sturinnese fleet. Could she adapt that spell? Use the wind from a distance before the archers got too close?
She began to write, slowly at first.
Clouds to form and winds to rise
like a caldron in our skies.
Build a storm with winds swirling through…
She crossed out the words in the third line, then tried another set. They didn’t fit the note values, either.
She paused. This time…this time…she might avoid the spells Anna had created. But, even if she could develop this spell—and use it—against the Sturinnese, could she again before they had a defense? Or would she have to create ever greater, ever more devastating sorceries? Or use those Anna had already developed?
Even as she tried not to sigh, she found herself moistening her lips.
18
The wind had died away earlier, and the peasant’s cottage was warmer than on the previous days, with the afternoon sun falling on the south wall of the dwelling directly enough that the fired mud bricks carried gentle heat into the large room. As the seventh glass of the day passed, in the period between midafternoon and late afternoon, Secca and the others of her informal council watched as Richina sang the scrying spell.
“Show us now and in this day’s light
the closest Sturinnese that we might fight…”
The image in the glass showed the Sturinnese in a small hamlet, with horses being led into corrals, or tethered on tie-lines, and a set of two four-man patrols, apparently being briefed by an officer. Several drummers were unloading drums wrapped in oiled leather from packhorses and carefully carrying them into one of the small hovel-like cots. Puffs of smoke came from a cooking fire beside one of the larger dwellings.
After everyone had studied the image, Secca nodded to Richina. The younger blonde sorceress sang the release couplet and lowered her lutar.
“If you would show us where they are, Wilten?” Secca gestured to the maps laid out on the table beside the scrying mirror—maps handdrawn from the views Alcaren, Richina, and she had called up in the scrying glass over the two previous days.
“They have sent out scouts, and they have begun to set up an encampment in this smaller hamlet,” Wilten said, touching the map with a stick that had been whittled into a pointer. “It is about ten deks from here.”
“How far from the hillside to the south?”
“A fraction over seven deks, I would judge.”
Secca glanced to Alcaren, then Richina, and finally, Palian. “Can you have your players ready to ride in less than half a glass? Leaving all but their instruments behind?”
“That we can do.”
“And your lancers?” Secca asked the two overcaptains.
“Easily,” offered Delcetta.
“That we can do,” Wilten said after the briefest of pauses.
“Then, let us make ready.” Secca glanced to Palian. “Have them prepare the third building song, with the flame song in reserve for Richina.”
“The third building song, and then the flame song.”
“I hope we will not need the second,” Secca said, “but with the Sturinnese, it is best to be prepared.”
“You do not expect them to give battle, lady?” asked Wilten.
“They may see us drawing up on a hilltop some three or four deks away, but that is a ride of close to a glass. We will either have succeeded or failed long before they can reach us.” She smiled. “If we saw the Sturinnese beginning to ride out after we had finished a day’s ride, would we wish to ride hard to battle?”
“No, lady,” said Delcetta. “But we would be watchful.”
“Most watchful,” added Wilten.
“I hope they are no different,” Secca replied. “Watchfulness will not harm us.” She turned to Alcaren. “Would you use the glass to scry what they do as we make ready, and after we reach our position?”
“I would be happy to, my lady.” Alcaren inclined his head in acceptance.
“You, Richina,” Secca continued, “must stand ready with the flame spell in case we are beset unexpectedly. You may be able to use the players, but you may only have your own voice and lutar.”
“Yes, lady.” Richina nodded, still holding her lutar, but her eyes going to the corner where the opened lutar case lay.
“Get the lancers and players ready,” Secca said.
“Yes, lady.”
Palian and Delvor hurried out of the cottage, followed by Delcetta and Wilten, leaving Secca, Alcaren, and Richina standing around the long and battered wooden table.
“You are not pleased with what you must do,” Alcaren observed.
“That seems to be my duty in life,” Secca replied dryly. “If I do not strike first, then they will. If I do not strike hard enough to destroy them utterly, then we will pay in greater losses later. In turn, in later times, they will try to strike first and with more deadly force.”
“Is that not all war, all battle?” asked Alcaren.
“Always it has been, but a sword, an arrow, even a crossbow…they can but strike from a limited distance.” She shook her head. “To survive, we will change warfare.”
“You fear it will change Liedwahr and us?”
“I know it will change all Erde—and us.” Secca forced a smile. “Talking will do us little good now. In a few moments, will you again study the Sturinnese in the glass?”
Alcaren nodded.
Secca walked toward the small bedroom, aware as she stepped through the narrow door that, short as she was, the lintel was less than a span above her head. She donned the green leather riding jacket, and the green felt hat, before stepping back into the main room, where she recased her own lutar.
Richina had already left, and Alcaren had put on his jacket, but not fastened it, as he tuned his lumand. “How long do you want me to wait?”
“Until we’re almost all ready to ride,” she said. “I’ll make sure your mount is waiting.”
“I hope they don’t intend to ride out against us. I didn’t like seeing thos
e patrols.”
“Neither do I.” Yet, as she left the cottage, Secca wondered. Would she feel better if the Sturinnese mounted an attack? Even if it meant that SouthWomen and Defalkan lancers would die? She frowned as she stepped into the chilly afternoon.
Outside in the cold late afternoon, players were already saddling mounts and strapping their instruments in place. Gorkon rode up, leading Secca’s gray and Alcaren’s brown gelding. Richina joined Secca as the older sorceress was swinging up into the mare’s saddle.
“You do not look pleased, Lady Secca,” observed Richina quietly.
“I cannot say that I am, Richina.” A tight smile played around Secca’s face as she settled herself into the saddle. “If we are successful, there will be few deaths among our forces, but it will encourage the Sea-Priests to try greater sorcery against us from farther away. And then…we will have to attempt such before they do…” Secca sighed. “And yet, there is no help for it, if we wish to remain free, you and I, especially.”
“And a few thousandscore other women,” added Palian as she reined up beside Secca. “The players are ready, Lady Secca.”
“So are the lancers,” added Wilten from behind Palian.
“The SouthWomen,” came Delcetta’s clear voice.
“Alcaren!” Secca called.
“Not usually late…the overcaptain…” murmured a voice.
“I asked him to check in the glass once we were mounted,” Secca said. “To make sure that the Sturinnese will not surprise us.”
It seemed scarcely a few moments before Alcaren hurried out of the cottage, carrying both his lumand and the leather-wrapped scrying glass. As he strapped his lumand and the glass behind his saddle, he told Secca, “There’s no sign of their assembling large numbers of archers, but it looks as if they may be sending out another patrol—one almost of a full squad of archers.”
“If that patrol sees us, they may well assemble all they have,” suggested Richina.
“Not in time,” replied Secca. Seeing Alcaren mounted, she called to Wilten and Delcetta, “Overcaptains!”
“Vanguard forward!” Wilten ordered.
The column started forward along the road out of the hamlet, a road that was barely more than a trail, but with clay frozen almost as hard as the stone roads of Defalk or Ranuak. The mounts’ breath steamed in the cold clear air that foreshadowed twilight and a colder evening. One-handedly, Secca fastened her jacket around her more tightly.
“Are you cold?” asked Alcaren, leaning toward her.
“I’m fine.”
With the slightest of nods, he straightened in the saddle and offered not another word, a silence and an understanding of which Secca was most glad.
They had ridden less than half a glass when the road ahead turned due north along the side of a narrow creek that was a sliver of ice against the low bushes and grass. Wilten and Delcetta had halted the vanguard.
Wilten rode back along the shoulder of the road and reined up before Secca. “Lady Secca, it is best to turn east and follow the long slope of the hill here.”
“Is the footing firm in that meadow?” asked Secca.
“The scouts say it is. They also see no sign of any riders.”
“Good. Then we will proceed.”
Wilten signaled, and Delcetta relayed the order. The vanguard turned off the road and began riding across the meadowlike field, through the browned grass that once might have been hock high on the mounts, but which now was half that, bent over as it was from the wind and winter.
Secca began a series of vocalises, trying to warm up her voice slowly. Shortly, Richina followed her example. Even Alcaren hummed softly. Secca decided she needed to work on some proper vocalises for her consort—she might well need his voice ready in the weeks ahead.
Although the climb up the hill was gentle, it was slower than the road, and the sun hung barely above the Westfels when Secca reined up at the ridge crest that overlooked a series of lower rolling hills to the south and east.
“Chief players,” Secca called, “we’ll assemble on the flat there.” She pointed to an area of grass that was relatively level and sloped but slightly to the southeast. “Quickly, please.” She couldn’t say why she felt haste was necessary, but trusted the feeling.
After a moment, she turned in the saddle. “Alcaren…if you would use the glass once more—”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Richina, stand by with your lutar and the flame spell.”
“Yes, Lady Secca,” replied the taller blonde sorceress.
After Secca had dismounted, along with Alcaren and Richina, Achar took her mount, as well as those of Alcaren and Richina.
Secca walked slowly downhill to the flat where the players were setting up. She glanced to the southeast. That was the direction in which the glass and the maps indicated the hamlet where the Sturinnese had settled in was, roughly three deks away. Was there a faint line of smoke rising above the horizon, above the brown-grassed hills? Secca wasn’t sure.
Circled in an arc behind the players were the lancers, the SouthWomen to the north and Secca’s own lancers of Loiseau to the south. Immediately to her right, in front of the lancers in green, both first and second players were beginning to tune. Right behind her, she could hear Alcaren singing a scrying spellsong, seeking the Sturinnese yet again, and she waited for his song to die away, and for him to report.
“There is a squad of archers, and they’re riding toward us,” her consort announced. “You’d best hasten. I’d guess they’re but beyond those nearer hills.”
“They’ll have to dismount, but that won’t take long.”
“I’ll tell Elfens to have his archers ready as well,” Alcaren added.
“Good.” Secca nodded and turned toward both Palian and Delvor. “Stand ready.”
“We stand ready.”
Then Secca turned to the two overcaptains, who had remained mounted behind the three who would do sorcery. “Have your lancers ride back north a dek, into the swale there. You can reach us if need be, but this sorcery is untested, and I would not subject the lancers and their mounts to the wild winds that may come.”
“Are you certain, Lady Secca?” asked Wilten.
“I’m most certain.”
“I would feel better if I left a squad…”
“One squad only, then,” Secca conceded.
“First squad, green company,” called out Wilten. “All others, fall back.”
“Fall back to the swale below,” echoed Delcetta.
As the lancers repositioned themselves, Secca walked through the cold and dry grass, the thin stalks whispering and breaking against her riding boots and lower trousers, toward Palian and Delvor, and their players.
“We are almost ready, Lady Secca.”
“Riders! To the east!” One of the voices was Alcaren’s, but a similar call came from a SouthWoman, and another from Achar.
Secca turned more eastward. The white-coated figures were hard to make out in the dimming light, especially against the tan of the grass, but there looked to be only one squad of archers and a handful of players. All had scrambled from their mounts, and some were stringing bows.
“Richina! Use the lutar and flame spell against the archers down there!” Secca turned back to Palian. “Have the players ready to play the moment she finishes. The third building spell.”
“Stand ready for the third building spell.” Palian’s words to the first players were echoed by Delvor’s to the second players.
Then, in the sudden stillness, Richina’s voice rang out—strong, if not as open a sound as Secca would have liked, and certainly not as open as Anna would have required.
“Turn to fire, turn to flame
all those below of Sturinn’s name…”
Before the last lines of the spellsong, thin lines of orange fire erupted from the skies, arrowing out of the heavens toward the Sturinnese.
Less than half of those reached the archers and players before a shimmering pale wh
ite and gauzy dome appeared in the air above the Sturinnese—a clearly sorcerous creation through which Secca could make out the figures of archers.
Secca glanced toward Palian.
“We stand ready, Lady Secca.”
“At your mark.” Secca forced herself to relax, to loosen muscles that were tighter than they should have been, and to concentrate on the spellsong ahead—just the spellsong.
“The third building song, at my mark…Mark!”
Both the first and second players began the building song, with the usual two bars of melody before Secca joined them. She ignored whatever was occurring below, where the hazy white shield had been raised by a Sea-Priest, and concentrated on meshing her words and the players’ accompaniment with the visualization of what she intended.
“Clouds to form and winds to rise
like a caldron in darkening skies.
Build a storm with winds of ice and heat
that scythes all Sturinn’s men like ripened wheat…”
Secca slipped a quick breath between the stanzas, still visualizing the storm of all storms, one that would sweep everything before it, ripping and rending all the Sturinnese forces, both those in the lowlands before her, and those deks away in the Dumaran hamlet.
“Clouds to boil and storms to bubble
crush to broken sticks of wind-strewn rubble
all in Sturinn’s service or in Sea-Priest white
and let none escape the whirlwind’s might…”
After Secca finished the last words of the spell, she glanced downhill toward the archers. As she watched, the pale white shield vanished, and a dark cloud of arrows arched uphill. Yet, as they did, the skies darkened, and a rushing wind swept from behind Secca, out of the north, with such force that she went to her knees in the winter-tan grass, as did most of the players.
Someone had stood against the wind, for Secca could hear Alcaren and his lumand, singing a spell, one to the tune of the flame song, but with slightly different words.
“Turn to fire, turn to flame,
Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 9