The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  10

  Encora, Ranuak

  The Matriarch walks slowly toward the throne-chair of blue crystal that waits upon the low dais at the end of the formal receiving room. Her eyes barely take in the fa­miliar room, or her distorted reflection in the shadowed long windows on the west side of the room, a reflection that does not show clearly the blonde hair that is silvering all too rapidly, nor the drawn face that has become more and more angular with each season.

  Silently, she steps up onto the dais, turning and seating herself on the blue cushion that is the sole softness within the chamber. She straightens herself upon the throne-chair of blue crystal, then clears her throat, before declaring firmly, “You may show her in.”

  “Yes, Matriarch.” The voice of the guard is firm and clear, although he stands in the corridor outside the receiving room.

  The door opens. A gray-haired woman steps slowly into the formal receiving room, and beams of golden morning light slanting through the long windows bathe her boots. The short cut of her hair accentuates the roundness of her face, but the deep-set eyes are hard and cold. She offers a. bow that is less than perfunctory. “Matriarch.”

  “You expressed a desire to see me. What do you wish?” asks Alya.

  “I would like to know how long you intend to keep us prisoned in the White Tower. Or our daughters in the Blue.”

  “Not much longer, Santhya. It would not have been nec­essary had you not been so foolish as to try to kill the Sor­ceress Protector.”

  “I did nothing of the sort, Matriarch.” After a pause, she adds, “As you well know.” After a second pause, she con­tinues, “Nor did I consort a sorcerer and a sorceress under the aegis of the Matriarchy.”

  “You would rather I deny them that small happiness?” Alya snorts. “As for attempting murder, as one of your council, you approved that attempt, even if you did not per­sonally lift the blade.” Alya offers a wry smile. “Even so, I keep my word. It may be a week or two, but then you can return to your home.”

  “But not to the Exchange, I wager."

  “No.” Alya shakes her head. “You have proven that you place the Ladies of the Shadows above your duty to Ranuak. That is not acceptable for the Assistant Exchange Mistress.”

  “Dyleroy accepts this?”

  “It was her decision, not mine. She is Exchange Mis­tress.”

  “For mere golds you will destroy all we hold dear.”

  Alya’s eyes glitter, and a palpable chill issues from the dais.

  Santhya shivers, but says nothing, and her own deep-set eyes continue to view the Matriarch.

  Finally, Alya speaks, slowly, deliberately. “What we hold dear is the right to determine how we live. What we hold dear is for each woman to be mistress of her own body. Golds are one tool, but no Matriarch and no Exchange Mis­tress has ever subverted those principles to golds. You, and all the Ladies of the Shadows, fear the use of sorcery so greatly that you would return us to being slaves rather than see sorcery employed to keep us free. Through fear, you would enslave us.”

  “Through sorcery,” counters Santhya. “you will destroy us."

  “I doubt that.”

  “Matriarch . . . small as she is, well-mannered as she is, that sorceress will destroy all that is Liedwahr before the year is out. The Spell-Fire Wars will seem like nothing com­pared to what she will unleash in the name of protecting DefaIk---and us—from the Sea-Priests. The oceans will turn to steam; the land will flow like water, and the handful of folk who survive will die barren.”

  Alya laughs. “In the time of the Mynyans, during the Spell-Fire Wars you mention so often and so well, there were scores of sorcerers and sorceresses. Today, Defalk has four, perhaps five. The Sea-Priests may have a score, pos­sibly twoscore, after the score or so that the Sorceress-Protector Secca destroyed.”

  “The Sorceress-Protector has the knowledge from the Mist Worlds, and none had that in the time of the Spell-Fire Wars.”

  “Enough.” Alya does not raise her voice, but the receiving room chills yet more, despite the morning sunlight angling through the eastern windows. "We do not agree. We will likely never agree. I have answered your inquiry, and you may go.”

  Santhya offers the slightest of bows, then turns without speaking and walks toward the door that opens as she nears it and closes after she passes through it.

  Alone in the receiving room, Alya does not rise from the crystal chair. Her eyes are dark, and her face remains drawn.

  11

  With the sun barely rising over the port quarter of En­cora, Secca and Alcaren dismounted on the pier where the ocean trader was tied. Secca still felt tired from having to do sorcery early in the morning to send the mes­sage tube to Lord Robero, but she hadn’t wanted to send it much before they left, and did not wish to send it later, when she might need all her strength to deal with the Sturinnese. As she turned, Secca glanced again at the wooden plaque below and aft of the bowsprit, where the spare script letters proclaimed Silberwelle.

  “You don’t mind that it’s the Silberwelle, do you?” asked Alcaren.

  “Not so long as you don’t have any Darksong in mind,” Secca replied. Still, it had been disconcerting to find that the “flagship” of her small expedition was the same vessel from whose deck she had destroyed the Sturinnese fleet blockading Encora and where she had nearly died.

  After unstrapping her saddlebags and lutar, Secca turned and looked once more at the Silberwelle. “I hadn’t thought . . ."

  “You hadn’t thought what, Lady Sorceress?” came the question from the ship’s railing beside the upper end of the gangway.

  Secca glanced up and smiled at the woman who addressed her. Captain Denyst was less than a span taller than Secca and little broader. The captain’s broad and welcoming smile, set in a face tanned and weathered, showed even white teeth.

  “You’d not be depriving me of the chance to help you strike at the Sea-Pigs now, would you?” asked the Silber­welle’s captain in her unique voice, a voice that carried the slightest of rasping edges and seemed to cut through every­thing around.

  Secca shook her head. “I’m afraid I didn’t end the last battle particularly well.”

  “Any battle you win and survive is a good one.” Denyst gestured abruptly. “Don’t stand there. Come on board. Need to load all those players and mounts coming down the pier, and need to cast off no later than midmorning.”

  Secca walked up the gangway, trying to reconcile the feelings she harbored with the knowledge that the Silber­welle and her captain were the best suited for the voyage ahead, yet also recalling the chill feeling of those moments but a few weeks before when she had gone to the edge of death---and perhaps farther. As her boots touched the wood, and she moved away from the pier, two crew members waited to descend to begin loading Secca’s and Alcaren’s mounts.

  “It’s good to see you looking so well,” offered Denyst, once Seeca and Alcaren stood on the main deck. “Consort­ing looks to agree with you two.” The wiry captain grinned directly at Secca. “Take someone like you to set this rascal’s heart afire.” Denyst then glanced toward Alcaren. “Good thing, too.”

  “You’d have me ablaze all the time?” joked Alcaren.

  “Better that than an unhappy trader or a guard to the Ma­triarch, don’t you think? Love’d be the only ruler you’d abide.” Denyst turned slightly and called to the crewmen leading the gray up the gangway. “Those two in the forward stalls!”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Denyst turned to the two. “The first, and I’ll be sharing her cabin. You can have mine.”

  “You don’t have to . . .” Secca began to protest.

  “Aye, and I don’t, but consorting happens but once, and there’s little enough time before you face the Sea-Pigs.” Denyst’s eyes twinkled. “Next voyage you take with me, you two can have a smaller space.”

  “Thank you.” Secca hoped there would be the opportunity for another voyage.

  ‘Thank you,” echoed Alcare
n.

  “No thanks till we port at Stygia.” Denyst frowned. “There are no Sturinnese vessels in Narial? That is what you said?”

  “That is what the glass shows,” Secca admitted.

  “They don’t have anything here to challenge us,” Alcaren replied. “But there is a fleet gathering in the Ostisles.”

  “We best hasten home,” Denyst said. “Leastwise, quick enough to discourage them from coming after us. Best you get yourself settled while I tend to the load-on. Figuring the balance with all those mounts will take some doing.” With a quick smile, Denyst stepped past them toward the gang­way.

  Alcaren gestured toward the hatch leading aft.

  Secca glanced back up at the poop deck railing, where she had fallen at the end of the battle; and where Alcaren, had used Darksong to save her. Then she swallowed and followed Alcaren through the hatch toward the captain’s cabin.

  12

  East of Eseria, Neserea

  A fire burns in the narrow hearth of the small sitting room. Despite the heat thrown out by the dark iron reflector plates set against the bricks at the back of the hearth, white rime covers the panes of the windows, largely masked by heavy and worn hangings, once crimson, but now closer to maroon. The sorceress pulls back the left hanging and scrapes one of the paired windows clear of the ice for a moment. Through the waning and weak late-afternoon sun, she looks down at the gate of the small keep. Then, at the knock on the door, she pulls the hangings

  back over the windows and walks to the door, opening it and looking past the single guard, who has barely begun to speak.

  “Lady Clayre . . . . . your chief player.”

  “Please come in, Diltyr,” Clayre says to the brown-haired chief player, who stands in the chill, stone-walled corridor.

  As Diltyr enters and closes the door, he smiles. “You are looking well in such cold weather, my lady.”

  “If I must choose, I will take the cold over the heat of summer.” She laughs gently. “Especially when one must wear what ladies must” Her smile fades. “I how the cold is hard on the armsmen and players. I would not subject them to it, were it not necessary.”

  “They understand, lady.”

  Clayre steps toward the table, picking up the lutar she had tuned before looking out the window to study the gate to the small hold. "We must see where Belmar is at the mo­ment, and if we can determine what he essays.”

  The two figures stand before the glass laid upon the ancient hexagonal table. Clayre’s fingers touch the lutar’s strings, and she begins a vocalise to warm up her voice.

  When the sorceress finishes the vocalise, the chief player clears his throat, then offers, “Lord Nysl frets that we remain here, Lady Clayre.”

  “I worry that we remain here. Yet we must see what small opening Belmar may offer us. With but two companies of lancers and a quarter-score of players remaining with us, we must take any advantage we can. That is why we will study the glass.” Clayre picks up the lutar and clears her throat, before offering the spell.

  “Show us Belmar and those who play his spells,

  bring in view all that spellsong tells...”

  The glass obediently displays the dark-haired Belmar standing before a group of more than a half-score of players, afternoon sun, she looks down at the gate of the small keep. Then, at the knock on the door, she pulls the hangings

  back over the windows and walks to the door, opening it and looking past the single guard, who has barely begun to

  speak.

  “Lady Clayre . . . . . your chief player.”

  “Please come in, Diltyr,” Clayre says to the brown-haired chief player, who stands in the chill, stone-walled corridor.

  As Diltyr enters and closes the door, he smiles. “You are looking well in such cold weather, my lady.”

  “If I must choose, I will take the cold over the heat of summer.” She laughs gently. “Especially when one must wear what ladies must” Her smile fades. “I how the cold is hard on the armsmen and players. I would not subject them to it, were it not necessary.”

  “They understand, lady.”

  Clayre steps toward the table, picking up the lutar she had tuned before looking out the window to study the gate to the small hold. "We must see where Belmar is at the mo­ment, and if we can determine what he essays.”

  The two figures stand before the glass laid upon the ancient hexagonal table. Clayre’s fingers touch the lutar’s strings, and she begins a vocalise to warm up her voice.

  When the sorceress finishes the vocalise, the chief player clears his throat, then offers, “Lord Nysl frets that we remain here, Lady Clayre.”

  “I worry that we remain here. Yet we must see what small opening Belmar may offer us. With but two companies of lancers and a quarter-score of players remaining with us, we must take any advantage we can. That is why we will study the glass.” Clayre picks up the lutar and clears her throat, before offering the spell.

  “Show us Belmar and those who play his spells,

  bring in view all that spellsong tells...”

  The glass obediently displays the dark-haired Belmar standing before a group of more than a half-score of players, with three drummers, each before a set of three drums.

  “Drums . . . always where there is trouble are there drums,” murmurs the sorceress as she surveys the image in the glass.

  After a time, the dark-haired sorceress sings the release spell and steps back from the glass upon the table. She low­ers the lutar slowly, then looks at the chief player. “What do you think, Diltyr?”

  “Belmar has more players than do we,” answers the man with the short-and-square-cut brown hair. “Scarce a half-score of years ago, no one could find enough players any­where in Liedwahr, and there were neither drums nor drummers. From where do they come?"

  “From Sturinn, I would wager, although I doubt Belmar has looked closely into, the mouth of that gift horse.” Clayre frowns, pursing her lips. “We must strike in some fashion he will not see, and quickly.”

  “In the snows of winter, Lady Clayre?”

  “Better now than in the mud of spring, or the heat of summer, when he can bring all the lancers he has bought and borrowed against us with even greater numbers of play­ers.” Clayre lifts the lutar. ‘We need to find what else we can.” She lifts the lutar once more.

  13

  Secca slipped along the railing, up toward the bow of the Silberwelle, where Alcaren stood just aft of the bow­sprit, taking in the cool morning wind and the winter sun that offered but slight warmth. To Secca’s right was a long low line of darkness on the horizon---the south coast of Dumar.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

  He turned, showing a countenance merely ashen, as op­posed to the greenish cast his face had held earlier in the voyage. “It’s always better up here.”

  She shook her head sympathetically. “You didn’t want to be a trader, and here I am, dragging you back onto ships.”

  “But not all the time.” A ragged grin appeared on his face. “I hope.” After a moment, he added, “The harmonies must have a sense of humor. There’s definitely an irony here.”

  “What?’ asked Secca. “That, try as you may, you can’t escape ending up aboard ships?”

  "I'm consorted to a sorceress who can' t swim and whose lands are hundreds of deks from any water except small lakes and rivers . . . and I’ve taken more sea voyages in the past season than in the past half-score of years.”

  “It won’t be long,” Secca said. “Denyst says that we’ll be turning northward and heading into Stygia shorfly.”

  “I know.” Alcaren smiled. “I asked her just a while ago.” His smile faded. “I worry about her return voyage.”

  “you think the Sturinnese fleet—or some of it—can get there that quickly? The glass doesn’t show---"

  Alcaren glanced back at the sails of the vessels following them. “I would say not, but with the Sea-Priests, one never knows.” He offered a laugh, only slightly
forced. “But that is even more true with you.”

  “Me?" Secca protested. “I fear not. All know I must at­tack.”

  “But not where.”

  Secca doubted that. The Maitre or his sorcerers certainly had already marked her progress and would be ready for her comparatively small force long before she reached Envaryl.

  The two stood, side by side, for a time, until several crew members began to scurry aloft, and the Silberwelle began to swing more directly northward, settling onto a new heading, her stem pointed toward a slightly higher headland.

  “Stygia must be near those bluffs,” Secca suggested.

  “Directly under them, as I recall.” Alcaren stretched. “It will be good to stand on ground that doesn’t move.”