Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  Beside him, jerClayne waits, a puzzled frown upon his face.

  The Maitre laughs—harshly—and lowers the scroll.

  “Ser?”

  “That weakling suggests that we meet to discuss an agreement of mutual advantage. I can guess what that will be.”

  The younger Sea-Priest waits.

  “He realizes he is about to lose control of his land. He does not know that he lost it to the Great Sorceress years ago. So he would like us to remove the sorceresses and let him rule his tabletop demesne.”

  “He wrote that?”

  “Of course not. He is less than brilliant, but not that stupid. His words mean the same thing.” The Maitre flicks the reins to urge his mount forward, ignoring the undercaptain, who has turned his mount to ride behind them. “He is right to be worried. No matter what happens, if the fighting continues, he will lose. So he will do anything to stop it. Anything that will allow him to keep his title and lands.” The Maitre laughs again.

  “What will you do?”

  “What any prudent man would do. Promise him that we will talk, but I will neglect to say when or where.”

  Another look of puzzlement crosses jerClayne’s face.

  “Yes, we will talk…when the time is right.” The Maitre continues to ride, his eyes studying the road ahead, as the column moves eastward along the river, toward the road that will take them south to Elioch.

  109

  Secca walked beside the gray mare, the reins held loosely in her right hand, her boots hitting heavily on the gray paving stones of the ancient Corian road to Morgen. Her feet, legs, and back were sore, and her face raw from the damp winds off the endless low hills of western Wei.

  A good hundred yards ahead rode the Norweian officers and their squad of lancers. Their mounts didn’t need extra care, Secca reflected. Something bothered her, and she had not been able to grasp what it was…what might be wrong that she wasn’t seeing. She looked to the hillside to her right, but the brown grasses and the leafless bushes, and the scattered low junipers could have been anywhere. Anywhere. Then, she nodded and turned to Alcaren, who walked beside her, leading his chestnut gelding.

  “You have that look, my lady,” he said with a smile.

  “I realized what has been fretting at me.” She gestured to the hillside. “What is wrong with the hillside?”

  He frowned. “Little that I can see.”

  She nodded. “Did you not tell me that Nordwei had also suffered in the Spell-Fire Wars?”

  Alcaren smiled. “There was not so much sorcery used here in the west—except that many of the forests burned and have never regrown. The places that look like Ranuak are to the south and east of Wei itself, mostly along the River Ost. That was closer to the Mynyan holdings.”

  “No one ever mentions that in schooling in Defalk,” she said slowly.

  Her observations were cut short as the toe of her boot caught the slightly upraised edge of a paving stone, and she stumbled forward, barely catching her balance. “Dissonance!” You were the one who suggested walking the mounts…And she was. She’d just forgotten how slow and painful walking was, even on the antique metaled road. And how cold in a land where spring came late, and winter lingered.

  “Are you all right?” asked Alcaren.

  “I am.” She shook her head, aware once more how her feet hurt. “How far?”

  “About a dek since you last asked,” he said with a smile.

  “I didn’t look pleased when you didn’t feel well on the Silberwelle,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Walking is hard on sorceresses with small feet and short legs.”

  “I am sorry, my lady. I was not taking pleasure in your discomfort.”

  “Then…why the smile?”

  “It was more of a wistful smile,” Alcaren said slowly. “I was thinking about music. I don’t suppose I’ll ever look at it or listen to it the same way.” He paused. “Yes…you know that music is the basis of sorcery, but in Ranuak, instrumental music was acceptable—without words and only on a single instrument. Now…it’s more of a tool.”

  Secca tilted her head, recalling Anna’s words.

  “You look thoughtful,” her consort observed.

  “I was thinking about Anna. She said something like that. She missed music by what she called the great masters.”

  “Who were they?”

  Secca shrugged. “She used many names. They were all from the Mist Worlds. I remember Mozart and Schumann and Poulenc. She talked about them more than the others. Sometimes, she’d say something about the tragedy of music in Liedwahr was that it was nothing more than a tool and never would be more than that because complexity introduced the possibility of greater error and because no working tool needed greater errors.”

  “Hmmmm. I can see that. But…how could it be otherwise? Even dinner music is a tool of sorts, something to put people at ease.”

  “Only in Ranuak,” Secca replied. “It didn’t put Fehern at ease.”

  “Nothing would have put him at ease.”

  “Any use of music puts off most people,” Secca suggested.

  “Like dancing?”

  Secca shook her head. “There is a reason for that. Spell music that affects the body is Darksong. People dance to music, and the old books talk about dance music with drums being especially harmful.”

  “So, because dancing looked like Darksong, the old rulers banned it?” Alcaren snorted.

  “I didn’t say it made sense.” Secca shrugged. She found her steps slowing as she climbed the last few yards of the gentle hillside curve in the road, until she reached the crest, where her eyes took in the mist of the valley that opened below. “There is supposed to be a town here, at the far end, with an inn. That’s what Salchaar said.”

  “Good. We could use the rest—if we can get there before dark.”

  Secca hoped so, even as she tried not to think about where the Maitre and his sorcerers and lancers might be and what they might be doing.

  110

  Although the sun had just dropped behind the hills to the west, the sky above remained a bright and clear blue that had not yet begun to fade into twilight. Only the lightest breeze—coming out of the south with a trace of dampness and the hint of warming ground—drifted past the riders.

  Secca shifted her weight in the saddle of the gray mare, her eyes dropping to the road momentarily. The ancient gray paving stones had begun to show more cracks as the road, descending gradually from the bluffs on the eastern side of the River Nord, neared Morgen. At least, Secca hoped they were nearing Morgen. Her legs and back were stiff, but not so sore as they had been for the first days out of Lundholn, when she had not ridden for weeks.

  Riding beside Secca, Richina took a deep breath.

  Secca glanced at the younger sorceress, pleased to see that Richina no longer looked absolutely gaunt. Nor did the younger woman have the deep black circles under her eyes. Secca frowned. While Alcaren merely looked tired, Secca had to wonder how long it would be before he started showing the strain.

  She glanced ahead, where a good five yards before her Alcaren rode with Captain Salchaar. The Norweian captain gestured to an oblong stone set beside the road—a dekstone around which the brush had recently been cut back.

  Secca leaned forward in the saddle as the mare carried her toward the grayish dekstone. It read: Morgen—2 d. Two deks to the edge of the town she could handle. She urged the mare forward to close the gap between her and Alcaren and Salchaar. Just beyond them, the road angled to the right with a steeper descent toward the town, which lay in the valley below.

  “The town is on the point between the two rivers,” Salchaar was saying, as Secca eased her mount almost beside Alcaren’s gelding. The Norweian captain turned in the saddle, half-toward Secca. “Morgen has five inns, even more than Lundholn. We told the keepers that you would doubtless be needing both quarters and provender.”

  Secca nodded. “That we will.” She’d already put her signature and seal to draughts for close t
o two hundred golds, and they weren’t even out of Nordwei.

  “The River’s Edge is the largest and the best, although,” Salchaar added with a twist to her lips, “I must admit that it has seen better days. Annalese has refurbished many of the rooms since she took it over and since trade with Defalk has continued to improve. It is much better than making a bivouac. It also has a bunkhouse that we have used as a barracks. I thought that would serve for you, your players, and some of your lancers. How long do you think…?”

  “One night,” Secca said. “We will not rise at dawn, and we will allow more time for rest, but we have already lost too many days.” She just hoped a slightly slower, but continued, pace would get them to Nordfels and then to the south before the Maitre had ravaged too much of Defalk.

  “We had thought as much.” Salchaar glanced to Alcaren, then back at Secca. “The road to Nordfels will be more difficult.”

  “We fear that, but that is still the swiftest way to Defalk, is it not?”

  “That it is,” replied Salchaar with a laugh. After a moment, she added, “We should be at the River’s Edge before full twilight.” She shifted her weight in the saddle to face full forward.

  Alcaren had slowed his mount until he dropped back to ride beside Secca. He gestured toward the town. “From here, the buildings look like the older dwellings in Encora.”

  “They couldn’t have been built with sorcery, the way the walls of Encora were,” Secca pointed out. “The Corians banned sorcery from the beginning.”

  “That’s true,” mused Alcaren.

  “And they turned women into chattels,” Secca added mischievously.

  Alcaren offered a puzzled expression.

  “They also lost.” Secca grinned.

  Behind her, Secca could hear a smothered giggle from Richina.

  “My lady,” Alcaren said, presenting a long face, an exaggerated expression of penance, “I would never have the ability to do either, and I would hope to have the wisdom not to try.”

  Secca laughed, and, after a moment, so did he.

  “I think they had to use stone,” Alcaren said after a time of silence, “because the Spell-Fire Wars destroyed so many of the trees. Here, they cut it by hand and with chisels.”

  While Morgen was not a city, neither was it a small town, Secca reflected, and cutting the amount of stone she saw in the dwellings beyond the river could not have been accomplished in any short period.

  At the base of the long grade to the valley, the road curved more to the right and headed due south between flat fields toward a group of dwellings and small shops clustered on the north side of the river.

  “Those aren’t stone,” Richina said from where she rode behind them.

  “They were built later, I’d wager,” replied Alcaren.

  Secca wasn’t about to take the wager, and instead surveyed the browned grass and the yet unturned soil of the fields flanking the road, then the dwellings on the outskirts of the town ahead.

  The wooden plank siding of the first dwelling she rode by was stained a grayish blue, as if to emulate some form of stone, and the shutters were painted a yellow that had long since faded. The space between the dwelling and the road was damp clay, filled with dead weeds, except for two gravel paths—one to the front porch steps and the other to an outbuilding that looked to be a stable. From the sagging porch, a boy in an overlarge stained sheepskin jacket watched the riders, his eyes dark and solemn.

  The next dwelling—on the left side of the road—had clearly been abandoned for years, with the roof caved in from winters of heavy snow, Secca guessed, and gaping windows with missing shutters. While the other dwellings, and a pair of shops of some sort without signs, were in better repair, none had been stained or painted recently.

  Beyond the dwellings was a cleared space, perhaps of one hundred yards, leading to the River Nord. Its greenish waters were less than thirty yards wide. The riverbed itself was three times that and spanned by a flat, gray stone structure, supported by thick buttresses. The railings were not stone, but timber, and although weathered, appeared strong enough to restrain the largest of trading wagons.

  The gray’s hoofs clicked on the stones of the bridge’s roadbed. Near the center, Secca looked east to the point of land beyond which a plume of more brownish water joined the greener waters of the Nord.

  “The Nord is much larger,” she said.

  “Much, lady,” replied Undercaptain Eztaar, turning slightly from where he rode in front of her. “The waters were near flood when we passed this way before. From the melted runoff of the Nordbergs.”

  “Thank you.” Secca looked around as the mare carried her off the bridge and into what had to be a stone-paved square almost a hundred yards on a side, a square empty of people or horses.

  “The market square,” Eztaar volunteered, letting his mount drop back beside them. “In summer and in harvest it is filled. Now…” he shrugged.

  Beyond the square, the gray stone buildings began—all at least two stories high and barely set back from the narrow stone streets that reminded Secca vaguely of Falcor, save that Morgen smelled older, even if she saw little refuse in the growing twilight. The acrid odor of wood burning in stoves and hearths was noticeable in the narrow streets, but that was the only sign of the inhabitants—that and a mottled gray cat that watched from the top of a covered rain barrel set in an alley.

  A half-dek beyond the market square, the dwellings and shops were replaced by an open expanse that was parklike, with the first real trees Secca had seen since leaving Elahwa two seasons earlier.

  “The River’s Edge is below the green, and to the west,” Eztaar volunteered.

  Secca peered in the direction of his gesture, but they rode at least another two hundred yards before she could make out the gray building. The River’s Edge was a two-story structure almost fifty yards long, one of the larger inns Secca had seen, with rust-streaked gray stone walls and a split-slate roof that showed traces of ancient moss everywhere. The shutters had once been painted red, but the paint had faded into a duller shade that almost matched the rust lines in the stone walls.

  As the column rode along the narrow stone-paved lane toward the inn, Secca could see that the old inn was not exactly on the river, but on a low rise on the south side of where the smaller and browner Fehl River joined the Nord. A paved circle with time-softened mounting blocks formed an unloading area before the entry to the inn. Behind the mounting blocks was a small front entry porch, no more than five yards by three, supported by two of the rust and gray stone columns.

  Salchaar eased her mount to one side, to let Alcaren and the sorceresses ride to the mounting blocks. “We’ll see that all is well here, and then escort Overcaptain Delcetta and her lancers to the Stone Oven and the Copper Skillet.”

  “Thank you,” offered Secca.

  “Captain Salchaar!” A rail-thin woman with a round face bustled out from under the eaves of the porch to stand in front of the mounting block closest to the inn.

  “Annalese,” replied Salchaar, “I said we’d be returning.”

  “Expected you yesterday or the day before, not that it makes the difference this time of year.” The edge on Annalese’s voice suggested that it did indeed make a difference. Her bright gray eyes, almost the color of the thatch of gray hair, remained fixed on the Norweian officer.

  “Annalese, this is the Sorceress Protector of Defalk, Lady Secca, and her consort, Lord Alcaren of Ranuak. And Lady Richina.”

  Secca noted that Alcaren raised his eyes at the title, but said nothing.

  “A pleasure to have you and your lancers here. Specially at this time of season.” A wry smile crossed the round face. “You ready to come in?”

  Secca glanced back at the lancers acting as guards.

  “We’ll take care of the mounts, lady,” Easlon said quickly.

  “Chief players…” Secca called.

  Another woman appeared, a younger version of Annalese.

  “My daughter Rekka. S
he’ll settle your players and your officers,” the innkeeper said.

  “This is Chief Player Palian, Chief Player Delvor, and Overcaptain Wilten.” Secca gestured, then looked at Palian and then Wilten. “Rekka here is charged with helping you.”

  The younger innkeeper bowed.

  As Rekka began to explain the quarters arrangements to Palian and Wilten, Secca dismounted, hiding a wince as her weight came to rest on her sore feet. She quickly turned and handed the gray’s reins to Easlon, then unfastened the saddlebags and lutar. Alcaren had already dismounted. His saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, and he carried the leather-wrapped scrying mirror, following Secca up the stone steps to the porch of the inn. Behind them came Richina.

  Inside was a long and narrow foyer, the walls paneled in plain but oiled oak that shimmered in the light of the four oil lamps set in bronze wall sconces.

  Annalese walked toward the archway on the left, stepping through it and into a long, white-plastered corridor.

  “We only have one grand room, and the Council said it was for you, lady,” Annalese said as she led the way along the yard-wide corridor, past frequent oak doors, all with bronze locks. “Also, we set aside the private dining room for you and your personal party and commanders. The private dining room is the one with the golden hangings in the archway. Not hard to find, seeing as it’s the only one.”

  “That’s most kind.”

  “Most practical. You’re paying, and you’re the one who’s going to stop the Sea-Pigs. Much as I like silvers, I like being free to run my own life even more.” Annalese snorted. “Should have all been strangled in their cradles.” Abruptly, she stopped at one door, producing a key. “This one is for you, Lady Richina, not quite so grand, but the best we have.”

  “Thank you.” Richina offered a head bow.

  “If you would join us in a moment,” Secca murmured to Richina as the younger woman started to enter her chamber.

  The blonde sorceress nodded.