Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  “That…that I can do, my lady.” Alcaren smiled.

  Secca turned back toward the writing table. The light was dim and getting dimmer, but she could always pull the writing table under the wall lamp, if necessary.

  67

  A dull ringing chime rolled through the darkness, and Secca bolted upright in the narrow double-width bed—one of the few true beds in which she had slept since leaving Encora so many long weeks before. Sweat poured off her face, and a wall of heat surrounded her and Alcaren, as if they had been placed suddenly within an oven. She found herself gasping for breath against the unbearable heat.

  Then, as quickly as the heat had bathed her, with the dying away of the dull, half-harmonic chime it began to diminish. Secca found herself shaking, as if exhausted, as if she had sung a major spell.

  “What…?” began Alcaren, also sitting up, then stopping and looking at his consort. “So hot…” He flung back the blanket.

  “Something with the harmonies.” Even as the words left her lips, Secca felt stupid for saying the obvious.

  “It had to be,” he replied gently, blotting his own sweating forehead with the back of his hand before easing himself out of the bed onto the rough wooden floor that creaked as he moved toward the wall lamp. After picking up the striker from the side of the wash table, he fumbled with it several times before the lamp wick caught.

  Secca glanced toward the shuttered window, but outside was still dark, without a hint of an approaching dawn. As dim glow from the oil lamp swelled and illuminated the chamber, Secca studied her consort. While he was not shaking or shivering, he also looked pale, wan.

  In the dimness of the inn chamber, the two exchanged glances.

  Then both spoke.

  “The wards…”

  “Your wards…”

  Alcaren smiled and gestured for Secca to continue. He sat down on the edge of the bed facing her.

  “I think someone tried some sort of sorcery against us, and not from very close. I could almost feel the distance,” she said slowly. “The wards…” She smiled, almost wryly, exhausted as she felt. “I guess they worked.”

  “The Sea-Priests, you think?”

  “Who else could it be?” She shook her head. “If there is someone else that powerful whom we don’t know about…but why would anyone else attempt it? The Ladies of the Shadows? Do they have that ability?”

  “The Matriarch never believed so.”

  “They limited themselves to assassinations?” Secca took another long swallow from the water bottle.

  “And other uses of coins to achieve their ends,” he agreed. “They’ve never used sorcery, and I can’t believe they would now.” After a time, he added, “Do you think we should use the glass to see who it was?”

  Secca frowned. “I’m still tired, but if I can do one spell, it might be a good idea. We’d know who it was. That would tell us what we need to do.”

  “Then you need to eat. Now.” Alcaren rose and walked to the writing table, where he leaned down and lifted the small provisions bag that lay beside the saddlebags. After rummaging through it, he held up a small chunk of bread. “Hard and stale, but it will help.” He had to saw into the bread and split it with his belt knife before he could offer a piece to Secca.

  The bread was so dry and tough that Secca had to alternate small bites with mouthfuls of water from her water bottle.

  “We need to keep more biscuits or something in that,” Alcaren mumbled through his own mouthful of bread. “And cheese.”

  “Where will we find them?”

  Alcaren shrugged sheepishly.

  “I feel badly about what we’re taking from people as it is.” Secca held up her hand to keep Alcaren from interrupting. “I know. I can’t help them if we don’t eat, but it bothers me. I don’t have that many golds left, even after taking what we did from Fehern.”

  “We won’t need golds at sea.”

  Secca nodded, knowing that she would need all that she could gather later, but there was little point in worrying about that now. Still, she worried that she dared not tell anyone, even Alcaren. The risk was too great that someone might hear, through sorcery or simple eavesdropping. Or are you afraid he won’t approve? What are you risking by not telling him?

  “Do you want me to try the scrying spell?” he asked.

  “I’ll try it. If we need a second, then you will have to do it.” Secca eased out of bed and padded across a room that was now cold to get the lutar from its case. She thought for a long time as she tuned the instrument.

  In the dim light of the single lamp, Alcaren unpacked the scrying glass from its leathers and set it on the narrow writing table, then stood, waiting as Secca finished tuning the instrument and thinking about the spellsong.

  When Secca was ready she turned and stepped up to the table.

  “Show us now and so that we can tell

  those who, against our ward, cast their spell…”

  As she finished the last words of the spellsong, an invisible hammer seemed to strike her forehead, and she had to force herself to hang on to the lutar. Her eyes watered, and for several moments she could not see anything.

  “Are you all right?” Alcaren’s voice seemed distant.

  Swaying unsteadily, she blinked, once, twice, before the image in the glass slowly filled her vision, if blurrily, and through the daystars that flashed across her field of vision.

  Flames licked at what had been a tent. All was charred except for one half-upright side, still partly suspended by the only erect tent pole and two unburned ropes. That sole, and shrinking, section of white canvas diminished as Secca watched the fire flare—and the edge of the tent sink into blackness and orange flames. Around the smoke and fire was a ring of lancers in white riding jackets.

  “Let it go,” Alcaren said. “They’re Sturinnese. Or they were.”

  Despite the pounding in her head, and the pain and blurring in her eyes, Secca lifted the lutar and managed to sing the release couplet. Just singing the couplet reinforced the pounding in her head, so much that she lurched against the table.

  Alcaren took the lutar from her shaking hands, setting it down gently on the floor and against the wall. He straightened and put an arm around his unsteady consort, helping her back to the bed, where she sat down heavily.

  “My head…it’s like being pounded on an anvil.” Secca squinted. “It’s hard to see.” She took the water bottle Alcaren tendered—his, because she had finished hers earlier—and slowly drank. The coolness helped some, and she thought the pounding inside her skull was slightly less intense, but her eyes still hurt, and everything she looked at still blurred and flashed.

  “You need to eat more. I’m going to see what I can find.” Before Secca could say anything, Alcaren was pulling on his trousers and boots and belting on his sabre. He took Secca’s water bottle as well.

  Stepping to the door, he slid the bolt.

  “Ser?” asked Gorkon, sleepily, as though the lancer had been drowsing at his post outside the door.

  “The lady Secca had to do some unforeseen sorcery, and she needs something to eat.”

  Secca couldn’t hear the rest of what Alcaren said, because he had closed the door. She looked toward the window, but no light slipped through the shutters, and the way she felt she doubted if it was much past midnight. She massaged her forehead with her left hand, then her right, but her head still ached, and she was so exhausted she had to give up the effort.

  In the end, she just sat and looked blankly at the door until it opened, and Alcaren stepped back inside and slid the bolt.

  He carried a loaf of dark bread, and a small wedge of cheese, and a pouch of some sort, as well as the water bottle. As if reading her thoughts, he answered, “Dried fruit. I persuaded the innkeeper to provide it.”

  “Persuaded?” Her voice cracked even on the single word.

  “I just asked,” Alcaren replied, innocently. “Oh, and there’s ale in the water bottle. I wasn’t sure either of us want
ed to try a cleaning spellsong.” He handed her the water bottle and then set the cheese on the edge of the wash table, where he hacked off a section, quickly extending it to Secca. “Here.”

  “I don’t…my stomach is roiling around.”

  “Please try it. You can’t get better without eating something.”

  “Can I try some of the bread first?”

  The dark bread was surprisingly moist, and tasty. Although Secca took very small mouthfuls, it seemed that she had eaten very little, yet the first chunk was gone, and she was reaching for a second.

  “You were hungry.” Alcaren managed through his own mouthful of bread. “Could I have a sip of the ale?”

  “I thought it was for me.” Secca had to force the grin.

  “It is, but would you miss a little?”

  Secca handed him the bottle.

  It seemed as though no time had passed when the two looked up at each other after finishing all the cheese, the entire loaf of bread, and the double handful of dried fruit. Secca licked a last crumb off her fingers.

  “How is your head?” asked Alcaren.

  “Better. It still hurts, but it’s a dull hurt. I can see without it blurring, but there are still daystars, now and again.”

  “I’m glad you’re better.” Alcaren frowned. “I worry about the wards.”

  “About what?”

  “Won’t there be others who will try? Won’t we need to redo them?” Alcaren’s question was almost hesitant.

  “We should. I’d like to do it now, but I can’t. We’d have to wake the players, anyway.”

  Alcaren frowned. “Can we wait till morning? What if—”

  “I can’t do it now!” Secca snapped. “I just can’t. I couldn’t even see, except in blurs. My head hurt so much I couldn’t think. It still hurts. How could I sing anything now?”

  “I’m sorry,” Alcaren said gently. “I just worry about you.”

  “I worry, too. I can only hope that they don’t have that many strong sorcerers, and that they won’t try anything.” Secca found tears streaming down her cheeks, and she turned her head toward the wall, hoping that Alcaren wouldn’t see in the dim light.

  “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “My eyes…I told you they hurt,” Secca choked out.

  “You said…” He left his words drift into silence as he slipped onto the bed beside her and put an arm around her. “I’m sorry. I just worry. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  After a moment, Secca let her head rest against his, but she didn’t turn to face him. “I know. I know. We’ll see in the morning. That’s all I can do. That’s all you can do. If you tried any sorcery now, you’d be worse than I am now, and then where would we be?”

  Alcaren said nothing, just squeezed her gently.

  “We’ll be all right,” she murmured. In spite of Alcaren’s closeness, she shivered.

  68

  West-Southwest of Nesalia, Neserea

  At the sound of the drums, and the players, the Maitre nods and steps outside his tent into darkness of the night. He glances upward, into a clear and cold sky where Darksong is at its zenith, a red point of light amid the spray of white stars.

  His eyes drop to the large tent to his left, its front panels open to allow the spellsong and accompaniment to fill the night. He listens intently to the two matched voices, the players, and the deep bass of the drums.

  As the spellsong ends, a single bright chord echoes through the darkness, unheard except by those who can sense the manipulation of the harmonies.

  The Maitre nods, a small smile of satisfaction upon his lips.

  Abruptly, the tent where the two Sea-Priests and players had performed flares into a brilliant orange-white light, searing the Maitre’s vision into momentary blindness. A dull ringing chord, almost leaden, follows the burst of intense flame.

  After blotting the involuntary tears from his eyes, the Maitre takes three steps forward, then stops. Ignoring his blurred vision, he stares at the flaming pyre that had been a tent holding drummers and players. So swiftly has the sorcery struck that there have not even been screams or other sounds.

  “The bitch! The murdering bitch!” The words are scarcely more than a whisper, for all their vehemence. “How? She had no wards.”

  “Maitre?” A tall and young Sea-Priest, his jacket half-fastened, hurries up to the older man. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine, jerClayne.” The Maitre’s words are cold, almost hissed.

  “I am most sorry, ser. I did not mean…”

  “It is not you,” the Maitre replies.

  “Fire! Fire!” The cry rings through the camp.

  Figures in white appear from everywhere.

  “Buckets! A chain from the stream!”

  The Maitre nods as the lancers swiftly form up and begin the effort to contain the flames blazing into the night sky.

  “Do you know…?” JerClayne breaks off his inquiry, his eyes turning back toward the pillar of flame.

  “The Sorceress Protector. She has much to answer for. Much.”

  “She did that?”

  “It could be no other. None. No one could be so deviously evil. So malicious.” The Maitre beckons to the younger Sea-Priest. “We need to see what she has done. You need to see this.”

  “Maitre?”

  But the Maitre is striding toward the flaming tent.

  After a moment, jerClayne hastens after the older sorcerer.

  69

  Secca sat at the battered wooden table in the inn’s public room, hoping that the hot spiced cider would quiet her stomach, and wondering how she was going to eat enough to be able to do sorcery to replace the wards before they left Stafaal for Narial—and the Ranuan ships she hoped were there.

  The room was empty except for her and Alcaren. Wilten and Delcetta had eaten and left to check on the lancers, as had Delvor and Palian.

  Beside Secca on the bench set against the wall sat Alcaren. His eyes flicked from her to the archway through which Richina entered, and then back to Secca.

  Richina glanced from Easlon and Dymen, who stood on each side of the archway into the public room, to the couple at the oblong table.

  Secca nodded for the younger sorceress to seat herself, not wanting to speak, and wishing that she felt better.

  Richina slipped onto the bench on the other side of the table. “I hope I am not…but…last night…there was a disturbance of the harmonies…” Her voice trailed away.

  Secca took another sip of the cider before speaking. “The wards.” She looked to Alcaren. “If you would.”

  “My lady was most successful in setting up the wards,” Alcaren said, with but the faintest dryness in his voice. “The Sea-Priests attempted to cast sorcery from some distance against her. The wards worked. The cost on her was great. She worries that she will have to sing another spell to reset them before the Sea-Priests try once more.”

  “What happened? How did they work?”

  “Their sorcery rebounded upon them and burned them as they would have burned her,” Alcaren said. “They did not survive.”

  “Oh…”

  “Secca used a glass to see that last night. It was almost too much for her.”

  “I’m better now,” Secca felt compelled to say. “Much better. Later…we can redo the wards.”

  “You look tired, Lady Secca,” Richina said. “Must you? Now?”

  Secca laughed, harshly, then coughed, shaking her head. She took another sip of the cider before speaking. “I did not sleep well, fearing that before I would wake more sorcery would be sung against us. I do not know that I can rest knowing that unless I sing a ward spell I could die at any moment.”

  Richina tried to conceal a wince. “Surely there are few who could do such.”

  “One is sufficient,” Secca pointed out. What have you begun? Will every sorcerer or sorceress have to be warded? Or will you or the Sea-Priests end up trying to destroy anyone else who can use distance sorcery to kill? J
ust to stay alive? Secca shook her head once more.

  “It may be that sorceresses and sorcerers will have to keep their abilities hidden,” Alcaren mused.

  “There will be even more shadowsinging,” Secca said slowly, “with sorcerers trying to find other sorcerers.”

  “Could they not work together as have you and I or you and…Jolyn?” asked Richina.

  “We can work together,” Secca agreed, “but would we wish to work for the ends of the Sea-Priests? Or they for our ends?”

  “And what of the Ladies of the Shadows? Or the Council of Wei?” added Alcaren. “If they knew that sorcery existed that could destroy sorcerers or sorceresses from so far away that they could not even know they were in danger?”

  Richina looked blankly from Alcaren’s almost-impassive face to Secca’s bleak expression, then back to Alcaren before speaking. “Are there truly that many?”

  “I would judge not,” Secca replied, “but I would not wager my life, or yours, or Alcaren’s, on such. Would you?” She finished the hot cider and set the mug on the time-and-use-distressed wood of the table.

  “Do you want more?” Alcaren pointed to her empty mug.

  “Please.”

  Alcaren raised his arm and gestured toward the servingwoman who watched from the doorway back to the kitchen. “Do you want some, Richina?”

  The younger sorceress nodded.

  Within moments, the rail-thin server stood by the table, her eyes darting between Richina and Secca.

  “Two more of the hot ciders,” Alcaren said firmly. “What do you have suitable for breakfast?”

  “Some of the dark bread. Cheese. Skillet potatoes. Might as have some mutton chops be fried up.”

  Secca’s stomach tightened at the thought of mutton chops.

  “We’ll have some of the bread, cheese, and potatoes,” Alcaren said. “No chops, though.”