Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

“Good choice, ser. For the three of you, it’d be five coppers.”

  Alcaren fumbled out a silver and showed it.

  “Yes, ser.” With a smile, the servingwoman turned and headed to the kitchen.

  “And we don’t need more golds?” asked Secca.

  “Denyst won’t ask for any,” Alcaren said.

  “If the ships come. If the Matriarch and the Exchange agree. We may get presented with an invoice for services,” Secca replied.

  “If the ships come to Narial, it will be because the Matriarch has convinced the Exchange to fund them.” Alcaren paused before adding, “Or paid for them herself.”

  “Could she do that?” asked Richina.

  “Not very often,” admitted Alcaren. “She has some funds, but she is poorer than most rulers, perhaps poorer than Lady Secca.”

  With two thumps, the server deposited another set of mugs on the table, along with two small loaves of dark bread side by side in a grass basket, and a wedge of cheese. “Be a bit for the other.” She looked at Alcaren expectantly.

  He handed her the silver with a smile, and five coppers appeared on the table. Alcaren left them there.

  Once the servingwoman was headed back to the kitchen, Alcaren immediately used his belt knife to slice off a large chunk of the bread, which he tendered to Secca. “Even if you don’t do the sorcery now, you need to eat, and you need to eat more than you have been.” He handed a second chunk to Richina. “And you as well, lady.”

  Both women exchanged knowing glances, but Secca took a mouthful of bread. So did Richina.

  Alcaren took a smaller slice.

  “You eat, too,” Secca commanded. “You get to sing the ward spell this time, and I’ll support you.”

  Alcaren grinned sheepishly, then shrugged. “As you command, my lady.”

  “Best you not forget it.” Because she couldn’t help smiling at his humorous tone, Secca elbowed her consort in the ribs.

  Alcaren laughed, and, after a moment, so did the sorceresses.

  70

  West—Southwest of Nesalia, Neserea

  A perfect semicircle of Sturinnese officers in heavy white riding jackets stands behind the Maitre under a clear but chill blue morning sky. Farther to the west, just barely on the horizon, are the white-covered trees of the Great Western Forest. Closer to the group, upon a square of freshly cut logs, lie two bodies wrapped in white canvas. To the right of the Maitre are a half-score of players. To the left are an equal number of drummers. All stand in precise and symmetrical order, as do the Sturinnese officers.

  The Maitre lifts his right hand, and both drummers and players begin. After a bar, his bass-baritone voice follows the accompaniment with the spell.

  “From the earth, from the land, and to the skies,

  go with spirits free, go in greater harmony…”

  The rhythm of the drums becomes more insistent with the closing lines of the ceremony.

  “…and with celestial fire now take flight

  becoming one with harmony’s sacred sound and light!”

  The Maitre’s last words are followed by a flaring spike of light that flashes skyward, and that light spike is accompanied by a crescendoing drumroll.

  For a time, all the Sturinnese stand rigidly in silence before a blackened square of earth that bears no ashes, no remains, where only the wavering of heat lines against the cold day shows that anything has transpired.

  The Maitre nods brusquely and turns, walking back toward the largest and most central tent in the encampment. When he reaches it, he steps inside and waits. He does not speak until the half-score of Sea-Priest sorcerers in white—all young-faced and clean-shaven—stand before him and inside.

  “Some of you may wonder what occurred last night. You may also wonder why we are heading away from Esaria to engage the Mansuuran invaders.” The Maitre’s voice is not loud, but it fills the large tent in the stillness of the early morning. “All this is part of a larger plan. It is one that we have labored years to accomplish. Tomorrow, after crossing the bridge at Tryve to the west, we will use sorcery to destroy the bridge, so that the Mansuuran forces must move toward Nesalia. We will take a few companies, along with those we acquired from the unfortunate Lord Belmar, and begin the return to Worlan, where we will be joined by the forces from the great fleet. The forces here will be reinforced by those from Dumar, along with a half-score of sorcerers coming with those forces. Those will be sufficient to destroy the Mansuurans without our aid.

  “Once that task is accomplished, it is but seasons before the entire west of Liedwahr is ours.” The Maitre smiles. “Now…make your preparations to strike camp and ride.” Another brief pause follows. “I would like a word with Marshal jerLeng.”

  A Sea-Priest in a lancer’s uniform with eight-pointed gold stars on the collar of his white riding jacket steps forward as the other Sea-Priests offer head bows before turning and filing out of the tent into the still-chill morning.

  The Maitre remains silent until the tent is empty except for the two of them. “It is not quite that simple.”

  “I thought as much, Maitre.”

  “Almost, but not quite.”

  “The Sorceress Protector of the East?”

  The Maitre nods. “There is no one left, besides me, who could sing a spell against her from this distance.”

  The other remains silent.

  So does the Maitre.

  Finally, the lancer officer pauses, clears his throat, and asks, “Why is this one sorceress so important to defeat? And, if she is, why not turn all the sorcerers and drummers here against her?”

  “You do not ask why I do not confront her?” The Maitre beckons for jerLeng to come closer before he laughs, without mirth. “I had not thought she was so strong as she has become. Now, the risk is too great. We are close to equal in strength. You know that distance spells only work with one or two voices, and if two, they must be matched—as with jerHalin and jerEstafen. We have no matched voices remaining.”

  “So…can you not focus your sorcery on her, as she did on Belmar?” An almost concealed edge of exasperation colors the lancer officer’s voice.

  “That was what those two we sent to the harmonies this morning did.” The Maitre gestures back toward the site of the ceremony. “Whatever she used is not a ward, but something different, and far more deadly. We have more voices, and in closer combat, as you know, a number of massed voices can overcome the greatest of sorceresses. That was how we destroyed the other sorceress, although Belmar did not realize that his spells were being aided, and that is how we must deal with the Sorceress Protector. She must be destroyed, but that is not certain unless we are closer to her. You must make sure that our forces here, and those coming from Dumar, understand your role. That is to destroy the Liedfuhr’s forces and then to rejoin us as you can. If we do not hasten back northward, I fear that she will sail to the Bitter Sea and use sorcery on the fleet from the west.”

  “They have sorcerers and drummers on board,” points out jerLeng.

  “But none are experienced, not in sea and sorcery battles,” the Maitre replies evenly. “If we cannot halt her soon, she will turn all Liedwahr in the direction of the Ranuan bitches, and Lord Robero will let her do so, for he cannot stand against her. Indeed, no man in Liedwahr, save Belmar, could have, and you see how he fared. She is not yet so powerful as she will be if we do not act. Once she is gone, Lord Robero will do as we wish.”

  “I had thought…”

  “He may indeed recall her to Defalk, but she is most willful, and we must not count on her obeying her lord. Not until she does. And if she disobeys, and we destroy her, well then, the good lord Robero is indebted to us.”

  “But how will you destroy her?”

  “I have tested her defenses. They would be difficult to penetrate, even if we could muster all the sorcerers we have here. But they take much energy from her. She cannot do great sorcery and hold those defenses. So we will destroy the bridge and weaken the Liedfuhr’s forces
as we can before leaving you and most of the lancers to finish them off. You will be reinforced, and you will be able to draw upon those sorcerers, while we will hasten to Worlan to deal with the sorceress when she arrives. With what I know, we will strike the moment she lowers her defenses to attack the fleet. Several of our younger sorcerers will follow her through the glass, and I will lead the rest in striking before she knows what we do.”

  “What of the other sorceresses in Defalk?”

  “The others we can wear down…or kill through poison, stealth, or golds.” The Maitre shakes his head. “This one…if we do not destroy her while we can, she will destroy us and all that Sturinn has built. That must not be, and it will not.” The Maitre’s eyes blaze.

  “We will do our part.”

  “Good.” The Maitre’s eyes fix on the marshal. “Good.”

  71

  In the bright and cloudless midmorning, Secca stood before the small tent at the base of a rise that rose to a low crest a mere fifty yards shoreward of the stone piers of Narial—a rise created and scoured down to bare clay by the sorcerous wave of the Sea-Priests seasons earlier. Dwellings and structures remained standing through the upper reaches of Narial, those on the hillsides, but except for the stone bridge spanning the Falche, virtually no structure around the harbor itself had survived. Near the harbor itself, and just seaward of Secca’s tent, were only two crude long buildings, each less than fifty yards in length and but a story high. Built of scavenged bricks and stone, they stood at the base of the one long pier that still had a clear channel to the sea beyond. Both were empty, but from the debris inside, one had served as quarters for some of the Sturinnese, and the other as a warehouse.

  Secca had insisted on having her tent erected in the shade beside the more landward of the two, leaving the buildings to the players and lancers. After two days in Narial, although the scrying glass showed no Ranuan ships in the harbor at Encora and a flotilla of ten somewhere at sea, Secca had begun to worry even more about what she could do if the Matriarch had not been able to send ships. The continual tiredness from the drain of the warding spell helped not at all, even if Alcaren had sung it.

  Regularly, she continued to scan the harbor and the waters beyond to the south, although she knew that looking would do nothing to make the ships appear or to allay her worries.

  “They will be here,” Alcaren said, appearing from behind the uneven brick wall of the warehouse. “They would not have ten ships upon the sea together were they not headed to aid us.”

  Secca jumped at his words, but Gorkon did not. Clearly, the lancer had seen Secca’s consort coming, even if Secca had not. Are you fretting so much you cannot even see or hear what is near? “We cannot wait long, not if we are to do what we must before it is too late.” She paused. “Did you have any luck in finding better maps?”

  Alcaren held up a small rolled scroll, darkened with age. “I found a section of one, in the papers left to the widow of a merchant captain. She was pleased to let me have it for a silver. It shows Stura, as the main isle and the port there were perhaps a generation or more ago.”

  “They can’t be the same now.”

  “The buildings may change, but not the land,” he pointed out. “Stura is by far the largest and wealthiest of the isles. That’s from where the Maitre rules. Would you like to see?” He unrolled the short scroll before she could respond.

  In spite of herself, Secca had to admire the cartography, and the artistry along the borders as she looked at the partial map.

  “These are hard to find,” Alcaren said. “The Sea-Priests have often imprisoned captains or officers who have lost maps.”

  “I thought you said you had maps.”

  He smiled. “There are maps that show the outlines of the isles, but this one shows more.”

  Secca squinted against the glare of the morning sun, taking in the minute depictions of towns and mountains, pausing as she came across a jagged line blocking a stream. “This?” she asked.

  “That is a rapids or waterfall. Here…that is a volcano, as in the Circle of Fire in Mansuur. There are a number on the north end of the isle.”

  “Like the Zauberinfeuer?”

  With a smile, Alcaren nodded. “This symbol means a reef shallow enough to strand a ship.”

  “You’re pleased with the map?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I must try another scrying,” Secca said abruptly.

  “Cannot Richina? There are no armsmen near, nor any that could reach us soon,” Alcaren said.

  Secca knew he was being cautious. There was no sign of any armed force anywhere close, and the surviving Dumarans were happy to provide provisions and leave Secca’s force alone. At least so far.

  Almost as if she had been prompted by Alcaren, Richina peered from the tent. “Ah…I could do a scrying, Lady Secca. I am well rested now.”

  “Why don’t you try?” Alcaren suggested quickly.

  Secca almost glared at her consort, but looked away quickly. Why are you so touchy? Wrong time of your season? Or because you’re tired? Or are you feeling guilty about keeping things from them?

  Alcaren rerolled the map carefully, then stepped inside the tent, where, after tucking the map into one of his saddlebags, he began to unwrap the scrying mirror.

  Richina followed him and began to tune her lutar.

  Reluctantly, Secca stepped into the tent to join the other two, waiting until the younger sorceress was ready to begin the spell before moving around to where she could see the glass that Alcaren had placed on the ground between the two cots.

  After pulling on the copper-tipped leather gloves, Richina finished tuning, and sang through a single vocalise before clearing her throat and looking at Secca.

  Secca nodded, and Richina began the spell.

  “Show the ships that sail to meet us here,

  as if upon a map with Narial so clear…”

  The image in the scrying glass was fuzzy, distorted, and almost impossible to discern. All three studied the glass.

  “They’re less than a day’s sailing from here. We probably couldn’t even get this image if they weren’t close to the coast,” offered Alcaren.

  “Can you be certain?” asked Secca.

  “Not until tomorrow,” he replied with a grin.

  Secca wanted to shake her head. She knew he was trying to be cheerful, but all she felt was tired and worried. “You can sing the release couplet, Richina.”

  As the younger sorceress released the image, Secca sat down on her cot and looked at Alcaren, still standing just inside the tent. “Aren’t you tired?” Even before the words were out of her mouth, she saw the dark circles under his eyes, and the tightness around his eyes, and she realized that he was at least as exhausted as she was.

  “I try not to dwell on it.”

  A thumping, half-clanging sound filled the tent. Secca turned to see a brass tube rolling across the packed clay between the cots.

  Alcaren pulled on his riding gloves and scooped it up, wrenching the top off and extracting the scrolls inside before dropping the tube back on the packed ground. “It was almost glowing.” The gloves came off quickly, and he handed the two scrolls to Secca.

  The longer scroll was fastened with ribbons and seals, and was, presumably, from Lord Robero. Secca opened it first and began to read.

  The Lady Secca, Sorceress Protector of the East, Lady of Mencha and Flossbend, Greetings and best wishes from Falcor, and our deepest appreciation for restoring the lands of Ebra, Elahwa, and Dumar to the oversight of Defalk. You have accomplished what many believed impossible, and for that all in Defalk must be grateful….

  Secca didn’t like the opening words at all. Fulsome praise from Robero was but honey before the vinegar.

  …You are, with the untimely death of Lady Clayre from the sorcery of Lord Belmar, the sole force capable of holding off the Sturinnese forces in Neserea. Defalk’s very survival depends on you. For this reason, I must request, order if I must, that y
ou return to Falcor as expeditiously as possible, returning as closely as possible by a route through Stromwer, so that all Defalk can be assured that you will return in safety…

  She managed to keep a faint smile on her face as she continued reading, even as her stomach was clenching at the words before her.

  …Any sea voyage, even to Neserea, is fraught with too great a hazard, both to you personally, and to Defalk as a land. You must not embark on such, but return immediately before the situation becomes intolerable….

  With all that you have done, against near-impossible odds, none will think less of you, and many will think more of you for exercising prudence in defending your land…

  Secca forced herself to keep reading to the end and to the even more flowery conclusion. Then she carefully rerolled the first scroll and read the second and shorter scroll.

  Dearest Secca,

  I hesitate to send these, yet know I must, if only so that you know how matters be here in Falcor.

  A handful of the older lords, led by Ebraak and Fustar, have been catering favor with Robero, suggesting that the only way that he can rule in his own right is with the backing of Sturinn, because only Sturinn can free him of the domination of the sorceresses. You will be happy to learn that Lord Ebraak died of a wasting flux on his way back to Nordfels, although Lord Robero does not yet know this.

  Secca shook her head. Lord Cassily would probably be a better lord than his father, but Secca had to worry about Jolyn’s motives, for she doubted Ebraak had died accidentally and coincidentally. Are yours any more pure? She took a deep breath and continued reading.

  Others, such as Dostal and Nerylt, have urged him to talk to envoys of the Maitre, saying that talking can do no harm. Those who have suggested opposing Sturinn, such as Lord Kinor and Lord Birke, Lord Robero will not see. There are murmurs that others have his ear, and I have used what means are at my disposal to seek out who they may be. He has met with men I do not know, but the pool shows little, save that they dress well and that they have oft lodged with Lord Ebraak.