Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  It could have been, had you studied more when Anna lived. Or had you considered better spells. But, by the time she faced the Maitre, Secca had had no other choices. The whole point of shadowsinging was to avoid having to use great and terrible sorcery, and Secca had not fully understood. She had thought that terrible spellsongs and shadow sorcery were simply different tools, and that shadow sorcery could at times preclude terrible spellsongs. She had not understood how closely the two were linked, as if they were two sides of the same coin. If one side were not used, the other had to be. Sometimes there might not have been a choice, but Secca feared she had erred all too many times in not seeing the opportunities. And you will always wonder…as did Anna.

  Secca yawned in spite of herself, and the yawning sent fresh waves of fire across her face, and a deeper throbbing through her skull.

  “You must sleep, Lady Secca.”

  “…don’t…want to…” She had so much she needed to consider, and so much she wanted to tell Richina, for fear that she could not, that she would sleep and not wake.

  “Tell us tomorrow, lady. You can tell us then.”

  Secca’s eyes closed.

  140

  Under a clear and cloudless sky, Secca rode eastward through the morning on the paved main road that would lead her to Falcor—and Lord Robero. She wore the green felt hat pulled low across her forehead, not because the spring weather was cold, but to shade her too-sensitive eyes, eyes that, after four days, still showed her the world tinged with silver, if not quite so heavily silvered as right after the terrible sorcery.

  She turned once more in the saddle, looking back toward the spot where Aroch and the town had been—now a fused expanse of silver glass, glass that from a distance appeared to be a circular silver lake. Kinor and Tiersen had promised to set up warning stones on the roads that led to the ruins of town and keep—when they had time after returning to their demesnes. Secca had promised Kinor that she or Richina would return to help rebuild Westfort with sorcery.

  Following Anna’s instructions, Secca had not been closer than five deks to the ruins since she and her forces had escaped the heat and devastation. Even from that distance and after four days, she could feel the heat.

  While she felt no sympathy for the Maitre and the Sturinnese, who perished within Aroch, the cost to Liedwahr had been dear, dearer than any could have foretold—except the Ladies of the Shadow. So many Secca knew had died, and one of the last had been the unfortunate Ruetha, who had accepted a consorting with a weak lord out of fear of being poor and abandoned, as her mother had been before Anna had rescued her. Is that a lesson of sorts? Secca shook her head. No one should be punished for weakness. But the strong and the thoughtless so often do punish the weak…

  With a sigh, Secca turned back in the saddle to face the road ahead.

  “You cannot change what has been,” Alcaren offered from where he rode beside her. “Nor should you regret what you did.” He laughed softly, warmly, and yet ruefully. “Yet you will, for all the days of your life. That I know.”

  “How can I not regret all those who died?” Secca gestured to the vanguard riding before them and then swung her arm to encompass those who followed. “Stura is destroyed. The north of Neserea is devastated. Nearly two-thirds of the SouthWomen died to follow us. I have less than half the lancers who rode out from Loiseau little more than two seasons ago…”

  “Let us say, my love,” Alcaren offered calmly, “that you had been able and ready to use shadow sorcery on the Maitre the day you discovered he was in Neserea—”

  “That would have been too late.”

  “So…you are faulting yourself for not knowing all that happened in the world? When no others did?” Alcaren’s silvered eyes twinkled. “You would fault yourself for what you could not have known?”

  Secca shook her head, knowing that, in the use of words, she could not overcome Alcaren’s logic, and while what he said made sense, it also made no difference, because too many people had died. She could not have accepted women in chains, and the Maitre could not accept them free of chains. Secca could justify her actions because she had not been the one to attack and force her way on others, but could there have been another way?

  At the time it all had begun, after Anna’s death, it had probably been too late. Secca’s lips tightened. But now…now she had to make certain that another such conflict did not arise—not in her life, and perhaps beyond.

  “Lord Robero is still in Falcor,” Alcaren said, his voice neutral.

  “He was this morning.”

  “You do not intend to send him any messages except the one you dispatched two days ago?”

  “No. He knows that the Sturinnese and the Maitre have been destroyed. That is enough until we meet.”

  “Will he meet with you?”

  Secca shrugged. “How can he not?”

  “He fears you.”

  As well he should…as well he should. Secca smiled.

  “Yet even he does not know how strong a sorceress you have become,” Alcaren added. “Nor do you.”

  “Because I have done terrible spellsongs? Does that make me stronger? Or just more cruel?” asked Secca.

  “You know you are stronger in what spells you can sing. So am I, and so is Richina. That is good for Defalk and Liedwahr.”

  But is it good for me…for us? “Perhaps.”

  “What will Lord Robero do, do you think?” asked Alcaren, clearly understanding that Secca was uncomfortable in talking about her strength as a sorceress. “I know him but through your eyes.”

  “He will blame me for his misfortunes, and for the deaths and destruction. Perhaps he will say he had no choice. He should not have threatened to take Loiseau from me.”

  “It means more to you than Flossbend?”

  “In a way. I earned Loiseau, and it was given with love.” Even thinking of Loiseau, of Anna, Secca could feel the emptiness, wondering again if that would always be with her.

  “Perhaps he will reward you.”

  “It’s too late for that. Defalk deserves better.” Are you the one to provide it? But who else is there? Secca took a long and slow breath, then leaned forward and patted Songfire on the shoulder.

  Behind them, Jolyn rode, talking with Palian, and the two younger sorceresses told Valya about Falcor. Secca looked eastward, silver-tinged eyes slit against the brightness of the day, and against the decisions she had made and would have to carry out.

  141

  Encora, Ranuak

  In the shadows of the balcony, the Matriarch looks southward at the sun setting behind the low hills overlooking the harbor. Beside her stands Aetlen, one arm loosely around her waist.

  “I feel happy for her and sorry for her,” Alya muses.

  “Lady Secca?” asks Aetlen.

  “She will not see it yet, but she has no choice. She wrestles with a decision that is not a choice.”

  “She feels it within her heart, but would wish to deny it,” suggests Aetlen. “As did you, once, as I recall. Within, you two are much alike.”

  “I suspect so. Except she has been forced to learn in blood and pain that good principles and feelings are far from enough to ensure peace and prosperity—or free actions for people.”

  “You feel sorry for her.”

  “Don’t you?” asks the Matriarch. “Every joy she will know will be tinged with bitterness and loss. Every action taken will be chosen knowing the pain of those who will suffer.”

  After a time, Aetlen asks, “What of the Ladies of the Shadows?”

  Alya shrugs. “I imagine that they will claim that either luck or the discipline of the Great Sorceress or the greed of the Sea-Priests, or some such, were all that prevented Liedwahr from being turned to molten rock by sorcery, and that what happened to Stura is a lesson about sorcery misused. Saying so, they will continue to oppose it here.”

  “You do not seem terribly upset.” Aetlen grins.

  “No. We can now send young men with a talent for sorcery,
or even headstrong young women, to foster with Lady Secca and Lord Alcaren. She could scarce refuse such.”

  “Not now.”

  “She will be far more careful than any suspect,” predicted the Matriarch.

  “She will be far more ruthless in using the shadows,” added Aetlen sadly. “Truly, she will have to be the shadowsinger for all Liedwahr, but she will not see that yet. All she sees is that Lord Robero must be replaced, and she questions whether it is right that she should.”

  “There is no one else.”

  They both nod, then watch as the sun slips behind the hills, and the harbor waters turn from silver into dull gray.

  142

  Secca shifted her weight in Songfire’s saddle, then leaned forward to see better the oblong stone by the shoulder of the road. The dekstone read: Falcor: 5 d.

  Secca looked to Alcaren. “Not that much farther.”

  “There has been no word from Lord Robero.”

  “The glass showed him riding somewhere,” Secca pointed out.

  “He does not wish to meet with you. That is most clear.” Alcaren laughed. “Nor would I, were I in his boots.”

  Secca nodded, then looked back over her shoulder. For the first time in the two days since they had ridden away from the glass lake that was Aroch, she could see clouds to the west, just a few white puffs, and in the light wind of midafternoon, she doubted that, even if the clouds darkened and promised rain, they would reach her force before they entered Falcor.

  “Look!” Alcaren gestured.

  Delcetta and Wilten rode back along the side of the stone-paved highway, then turned their mounts and flanked Secca and Alcaren.

  “A company of lancers rides toward us, lady,” announced Wilten. “They wear the blue-green of Defalk.”

  “After all that has happened,” Delcetta added, “we would prefer to be ready.”

  “That might be best,” Secca replied. “I doubt there will be trouble, but I will have the lutar ready as well.” She suspected she would be good for about one spell, but that was one more than some of the players could take.

  “I will bring up a full company to the vanguard.” Delcetta smiled. “They should see the blue and crimson.”

  “I think they should,” Secca agreed, returning the smile.

  In less than a half-glass, after they had ridden over a gentle rise in the road, Secca could see the company of Defalkan lancers. They had stopped and were drawn up in formation, less than a dek ahead on the gray paving stones of the road.

  “Column halt!” The order came from both Delcetta and Wilten, near simultaneously. “Ready arms!”

  Secca let her fingers touch the strings of the lutar, checking its tuning once more, before watching as a single officer in the blue-green of Defalk rode forward, his hands open, and extended to show that they were empty. He was accompanied by a single lancer bearing a white banner. He stopped his mount as he neared Wilten and Delcetta. The three talked for a moment, then all three followed the banner bearer along the shoulder of the road toward Secca.

  As they neared, Secca recognized the gray-bearded Defalkan officer. “That’s Jirsit.”

  “And?” asked Alcaren dryly.

  “Oh…he’s Lord Robero’s arms commander. I’ve known him since I was a child. Anna always found him honest and solid.”

  “Let us see how honest and solid,” suggested Alcaren.

  After reining up a good ten yards from Secca, Jirsit bowed. “Lady Secca, the lancers of Defalk welcome you to Falcor, and we stand ready and willing to do your bidding as Sorceress Protector.”

  “We have come to see Lord Robero,” Secca replied evenly.

  “He is not in Falcor, Lady Secca. When he received word of your victory and your message that you were returning to discuss the future of Defalk with him, he ordered us to oppose you. This morning, we formed up and rode out, and then sent a message to Lord Robero that since you had defeated the Sturinnese, we were bound to you as the Sorceress Protector.” Jirsit laughed ironically. “In less than a glass, he had gathered his personal guard and left Falcor. He was riding toward Elheld.”

  Secca nodded slowly. “We will enter Falcor, but we will only spend a day or so allowing the lancers and players some rest. Then we must go to Elheld.”

  “We know, Lady Secca. We ask to be placed under your command and to accompany you there.” Jirsit’s eyes held the hint of a smile. “We will abide by your decisions. Every officer and every lancer has so agreed.”

  Will it be this simple? Secca doubted that, since nothing in the past year had turned out as it first seemed—except her foreboding feeling about the Sturinnese.

  143

  Mansuus, Mansuur

  The two men stand on the balcony outside the Liedfuhr’s private study, looking out over the city and at the River Toksul in the quiet of twilight.

  The younger and taller Liedfuhr glances sideways at Bassil. “So I must plead to the Sorceress Protector now?”

  “I think not, sire. She will entertain a simple request, courteously sent, and accompanied with several thousand golds as a token of your esteem and gratitude for ridding Liedwahr of the scourge of the Sea-Priests. You could even suggest that because she used her own resources on behalf of Liedwahr you are sending the golds to her personally as the merest token of recompense.”

  Kestrin laughs. “Such words reek worse than steer manure.”

  “She knows that, and you know that, but she will accept them, and she will entertain your request.”

  “The woman could destroy all we have in a season, and you think she will entertain such a request?”

  “Yes, sire. It is simple. First, she will have to become Lady of Defalk. She may protest, and rail, for she is clearly not one to enjoy dealing with scheming lords and ladies, but there is no one else. She is young enough to bear heirs, and against that too, she may rail, but she is a woman who will do what needs to be done. Only sorcery will rebuild Neserea and western Defalk, and the only sorcerers and sorceresses are of Defalk. Neserea will become part of Defalk. That means that Dumar will not.”

  “Not now,” snorts Kestrin.

  “There is already word in Dumar that the Sorceress Protector had suggested your niece and her consort as the Lord and Lady High Counselors of Dumar. The Sorceress Protector will have her hands filled to overflowing in consolidating her power in Defalk and in rebuilding Neserea. You merely congratulate her on her wise decision in naming your niece and young Eryhal and promise another installment of golds in a year, once Mansuur has recovered from its own losses.”

  “She might accede there, at that,” muses the Liedfuhr.

  “Later, when she feels more secure, you request that she train a sorceress for the defense of Mansuur. She can say yes or no, but I would wager that she will accede if you are gracious enough.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps.” The Liedfuhr’s lips twist into an ironic smile.

  “Given what might have happened, we have lost little,” suggests the older man.

  “Is that not the usual refrain, Bassil? That matters could have been so much worse?”

  “Always, sire. Always.”

  Kestrin laughs once more.

  144

  Secca rode the last dek toward Elheld, northward from the town of Elhi, which lay several deks to the south of the hold, a town that had been little more than a hamlet until the time of Robero’s great-grandsire. Her lutar was already tuned and held ready while she guided Songfire left-handed. As she neared the ancestral hold of Lord Robero, Secca glanced at the ancient gates to Elheld—open, as they had always been—but deserted. Even at midday, under a warm spring sun and a cloudless sky, the reddish granite stones held a silver shade. But then, everything that Secca saw still held silver tinges, and always would, she suspected. The gates were not to a keep or liedburg proper, but set on each side of the lane and in the low walls that surrounded Elheld at a distance of well over a dek. Elheld was a sprawling stone mansion, not a true keep, and never had been high-walled in
the fashion of Loiseau or Falcor.

  The vanguard preceding Secca and Alcaren contained a company of lancers from Loiseau and one of SouthWomen. Jolyn and Anandra had remained in Falcor, and Jirsit had been persuaded to leave half of the surviving companies—five companies—of the Lancers of Defalk in Falcor under his assistant, Elber. Jirsit himself had insisted on accompanying Secca. So the column that stretched out behind her ran almost a dek back toward the town of Elhi and the Fal River.

  Past the open gates, the lane leading up to the main dwelling was empty—except for a single lancer officer, mounted on a roan stallion. The officer wore the bright blue tunic of Lord Robero’s personal guard.

  The column halted while Delcetta and Jirsit rode forward to talk to the officer, then all three rode back toward Secca.

  Alcaren left his sabre unsheathed, his eyes on the approaching officer. Secca continued to hold the lutar ready.

  The tall lancer officer reined up well back from Secca, and bowed in the saddle. “Lady Secca, I am Overcaptain Bryn, commanding Lord Robero’s personal lancers.”

  “Yes, Overcaptain?” Secca’s voice was impersonal.

  “Might I speak with you, Lady Secca?” asked Bryn.

  “You may speak here, Overcaptain Bryn, where my consort and all may hear. About this, I would have no secrets.”

  “So it has always been said about you, lady.” Bryn inclined his head. “Very well. Our problem is most simple. We are pledged to Lord Robero. Lord Robero has not carried out his duties and has exceeded his authority in trying to take your demesne from you. He has, if I may be perfectly blunt, also exceeded his intelligence. Nonetheless, we are pledged to him. You have the power to destroy us all, possibly without losing a single lancer. We neither wish to break our pledge, nor to die needlessly.”