Secca turned and slipped inside the dwelling. Once inside, she sheathed the sabre she had almost forgotten she still held, and then crossed the main chamber to the table.
There, Richina stood, lutar in hand, studying the glass. The younger sorceress looked up, then nodded toward the image of the map displayed on the silvered surface. “I have used both spells, and both show that they are on the same roads as this morning, and that there are no Sturinnese lancers near us.”
“Then . . . why?” Secca glanced to her consort.
Alcaren looked at Fehern’s form, sprawled where he had fallen---transfixed by the shimmering iron of the throwing lance. ‘We may never know, not for certain. He wanted more, I think, than he was worthy of.”
Do not we all? thought Secca, setting the lutar on the table.
“A moment, my lady.” Alcaren vanished, only to reappear seemingly within moments, with a bucket of water and some cloths---and a handful of flour.
First, be blotted her face with the flour, gently brushing it away, and then repeating the process. After that, he dampened one cloth slightly and blotted the line of the wound. Then he wet a corner of a second cloth and touched her cheek. "Does that burn?"
Secca winced. “Not any more than it did. But touching it hurts.”
“I’ll be back in a moment.” He left the room again, his boots clumping on the stairs.
Secca glanced at Richina. “Could you try a spell to see if anyone from Sturinn is nearby?”
The younger sorceress nodded. She frowned, then began the spell.
“Show us now and as you may
any of Sturinn near us in any way . . .”
The sole image was that of a man in gray mounted and accompanied by two Sturinnese lancers and two in the crimson of Duwar.
“That explains much,” Richina said.
“We knew he was a Sea-Priest,” pointed out Alcaren, who had just come back down the stairs. “What is disturbing is that there were Sturinnese lancers close enough to meet him.” He had a length of a dried plant of some sort, which he immersed in the bucket he had brought earlier. He began to knead the plant while keeping it underwater.
“They were here all the time, I’d wager,” said Secca. "They were in Dumaran uniforms. Those two probably changed to make sure they don’t get attacked by their own forces when they reach the Sturinnese forces.”
“You need to hold steady,” Alcaren said, taking. the damp stringy fibrous mass from the bucket and placing it across her cheek.
"Ooo . . . "
“It’s for burns. It is the only thing that might help.” He guided her hands. “Just hold it there for a while.”
Keeping the plant poultice against her injured cheek with one hand, Secca leaned against Alcaren. Her face still burned, despite the flour he had used to blot away whatever liquid Fehern had thrown. She could feel that her upper left arm was bruised badly and would be sore for days, if not weeks.
“I should have listened to what I felt,” she murmured. “Anna told me to trust my feelings. And Palian warned me. I ignored her wisdom. I should have asked more from her. It would have saved much effort and many lives.”
“You could not have known,” he answered, putting an arm around her uninjured shoulder and gently squeezing. “How could you have known?”
“Known? I couldn’t.” She straightened, looking her consort in the eyes, and ignoring the concern she saw. “That’s why feelings are better.”
She wouldn’t soon ignore those feelings, and the burning lines on her face would remind her in the days to come, and if she had scars, those would remind her forever.
At least, she had survived this mistake . . . and lesson.
35
Using the late-afternoon light coming through the upper window of the dwelling that remained her temporary headquarters, Secca looked in the mirror, studying her face closely. While most of the red splotches from the morning’s encounter with Fehern had begun to fade, the worst remained. A line of red-burned flesh, less than a fingertip wide, ran from the outside corner of her left eye straight down her cheek and under her jaw. The flesh around the acid-water wound was tender, with a lingering burning.
“Dissonance, I was stupid.” She shook her head, regretting the motion as the wound on her cheek felt as though it had been whipped with fire. “I did not think he would try to kill me with you and Richina present, not during a meeting. I should have known. I should have thought.”
‘Wisdom,” Alcaren said lightly, “is the product of experience, and experience comes from mistakes.”
“It’s better if we learn from other’s mistakes. It takes much less effort.” Secca replied wryly. “I should have asked Palian.
“I will try to remember that,” Alcaren said wryly. ‘We could use less effort.”
Giving him a faint smile, Secca turned from the mirror and sat down on the wooden chair beside the bed barely wide enough for the two of them. The chair wobbled as her weight settled in place. “We’re in a worse situation than when we started. We have fewer lancers and no allies. We’re in the middle of a land without a ruler, and people are likely to be hostile, because we killed Fehern. We haven’t done anything about the Sturinnese, and I have no doubts that matters are getting worse in Neserea.”
“Someone told Fehern how to deal with a sorceress,” mused Alcaren. “It was audacious and well planned. It didn’t work because you had Richina well trained with a blade and because you didn’t let Fehern know everything about her and me.”
“At least, I did something right.” Secca snorted gently. “Or partly right.” She paused. “Did you find out about his pay chests and golds?”
“They were in his quarters. He didn’t have that much.” Alcaren grinned. “About five hundred golds, plus another smaller chest with some jewels in his own gear. They might be worth a thousand.”
“That will help, at least for food.”
“Where there’s anyone to sell it to us,” he said dryly.
“I’m not very good at this,” she said slowly. “I have trouble concealing what I feel. I get too angry and act too quickly. I cannot do one thing while feeling something different.”
Alcaren waited, listening.
“I could not have turned Richina over to Fehern, no matter what, and I could not have talked sweetly enough to make him think I would.” Secca pursed her lips. “Even now, I could not do that.”
“You are what you are, my lady, and for that I love you.” Alcaren stepped behind the chair and put his overlarge hands on her shoulders.
“You are doubtless the only one.”
“Few people like those who do what must be done. Always, that has been.” Alcaren laughed, once. “And always it will be.”
“I’m not certain I am doing what must be done.”
“Lord Robero would not have wanted a traitor as Lord High Counselor of Dumar.” Alcaren cocked his head to the side, then stepped sideways to the small window. “I see Delcetta and Wilten riding toward the inn.”
“They’ll be here shortly, then.” Secca stood and headed for the narrow staircase. “I hope she took care of the rest the Dumaian lancers.”
“Given Delcetta, I would not wager on their survival.”
Secca smiled briefly, grimly, as she started down the stairs, with Alearen directly behind her.
As she walked into the lower sitting room, Secca’s eyes darted to the rear, where Fehern had died. Both the body and the blood were gone. She had told Alcaren to have the bodies buried quietly. One way or another, with the Sturinnese invaders and the Dumaran succession a mess already, it wouldn’t matter, and she had no desire to have what amounted to a state funeral in any form---not after Fehern’s treachery.
Richina looked up at the two from where she sat at the conference table. “Lady . . . are you feeling better?”
“My voice is fine, but my face still hurts. It probably will for days.” If not weeks, and it serves you right for being so stupid.
&nbs
p; “Acid-water . . . that . . .” Richina winced.
‘What Alcaren did helped.”
“Not so much as I would have liked,” he said.
“It would have been much worse had you not been there.”
Secca smiled at her consort. The smile hurt, too, but not so much. “After the meeting,” the older sorceress told Richina, “you will use a spellsong to send the scroll I wrote earlier today to Lord Robero.”
Richina nodded.
“He should know of Fehern’s treachery. We will see, when this is all settled, but perhaps the younger brother, the one consorted to Aerfor, might be a suitable Lord High Counselor. That is not my decision.” Secca cleared her throat. “Before the others arrive, it might be wise to see where the renegade sorcerer is.” She looked to her consort. “Would you mind singing the scrying spell?"
“If you had not suggested it, my lady, I would have. You need to recover your strength.” Alcaren picked up the lumand and sang.
“Show us now and in clear light
Fehern ‘s sorcerer who took to flight..."
The mirror displayed the same man, except he was now clad in white and stood in a tent, talking with three other Sturinnese, all of whom had golden insignia on their tunic collars.
“So it was planned from the beginning,” Richina said.
“We knew he was a Sea-Priest,” pointed out Alcaren. “What is disturbing is that there were Sturinnese lancers close enough to meet him."
“That is not the only disturbing matter,” added Secca.
“You think that Clehar’s death was part of it, and that they had groomed Fehern so that he would surrender to them?” asked Richina.
“No.” Secca shook her head. “Much as I can be certain of anything. If that were the case, Fehern would not have waited so long.”
“The Sea-Priests wanted to use the Dumarans to weaken our forces, because they did not think they could get close enough to you,” suggested Alcaren.
“That is closer to what I feel. Yet, if so, they would have already attacked while we were hard-pressed.” Secca frowned, then pursed her lips. “There is more to it than that, but what I cannot discern.”
“The overcaptains and chief players!” called Gorkon from the door.
“Have them come in.” Secca looked at Richina. “If you would sing any spells for scrying?”
“Of course, Lady Secca. You should not be singing now.” The younger woman’s voice carried more concern than Secca had heard before.
Why? Because Fehern’s attempted treachery had shown that even powerful sorceresses could be hurt or killed? Again, Secca wasn’t sure her thoughts were on the pitch.
Secca slipped toward the table and the ragtag assemblage of chairs and stools around it.
Traces of road dust still clung to Delcetta’ s boots, clothes, and hair, although she had clearly washed her face after her pursuit of the fleeing Dumarans. There were also darker splotches on her trousers, most likely blood.
Wilten looked more dusty than Delcetta, and he inclined his head to Secca. “You look better than when I last saw you, Lady Secca.”
“I feel somewhat better.”
Palian’s countenance was drawn, but, after studying Secca’s face, the chief player offered a faint smile. Delvor offered a wan smile as well.
Secca returned the smiles, then seated herself at the table, waiting for the others. Finally, once everyone was settled, she turned to the SouthWoman overcaptain. “How fared your pursuit?”
“The rearguard company was the sole one beyond the reach of your spell, Lady Sorceress. We cornered them by the mill. Only two of them escaped. One made the river and dived in, and the other had a fast mount.” Delcetta shrugged. “Overcaptain Wilten and I had our lancers inspect all the outlying cots and barns and dwellings. We found one other. He made it easy. He tried to take Captain Peraghn with a scythe.”
Secca nodded slowly. Two lancers surviving from ten companies. What a terrible waste, and yet, under the circumstances, what else could she have done? Could she have come up with another spell? She had put herself in a position where she hadn’t had the time. Stupidity, again. “How many lancers are wounded?”
“We have perhaps a half-score, and but one seriously,” replied Wilten.
“A quarter-score,” said Delcetta. “Saving the squad guarding you, lady, the red beasts did not attack us so quickly as they did your lancers.”
‘"Could you both ride out tomorrow?”
“That we could,” Delcetta said.
Wilten nodded slowly.
Secca looked to Palian and Delvor.
“Nuel was the sole player killed. Kylera has a bruised arm and a swollen finger. She laid out a Dumaran with a plank.” Palian shook her head, ruefully. “The Dumaran did not rise, even before the flames, but his mount struck the plank and wrenched it from her hands.” She looked to Delvor.
“Dossin has a slash on his left arm, but it will heal.” Delvor brushed back the unruly lank hair that had flopped down over his forehead ever since Secca had known him.
The redheaded sorceress surveyed those around, the table, then said, “We do not know what the Sturinnese may have done since midday. I had thought to have you all here before we decided.
On cue, Richina slipped off the stool and picked up her lutar.
“Show us where upon a map of this land..."
The mirror displayed the map that had become all too familiar, with the white stars showing the position of the Sturinnese forces. The northern force appeared to be settled at the small trading town south of the mouth of the trading pass to Neserea. The larger group of Sturinnese was farther from Hasjyl and Envaryl---than it had been.
Once everyone had a chance to study the glass, Secca motioned to Richina. The younger sorceress sang the release spell, then set aside the lutar and reseated herself on the stool she had been using.
“They’ve turned back east---the ones that were heading for Envaryl,” observed Wilten.
That didn’t surprise Secca at all. She would have been shocked to find the Sturinnese still moving toward her.
“You do not look surprised, Lady Secca,” offered Palian.
“The Sturinnese do not wish a battle now. That is clear.” Clear it was, but the reasons why an enemy who had always attacked had changed tactics were most unclear. While Secca would have liked to flatter herself that it was because the Sturinnese had come to respect her sorcery, she doubted that was the reason. “It may be that they avoid battle to keep us from going northward to aid the Lady High Counselor.”
“Or because they feel that they can triumph in Neserea quickly and then move against you,” suggested Wilten.
“All are possible.” Secca paused. ‘We may still ride tomorrow. We will see where the Sea-Priests are in the morning.”
Her feelings told her that they would be farther away, but not far enough away for Secca to ignore. They also told her that she needed rest, more than she would probably get for weeks, if not seasons.
She offered yet another polite smile. “We will meet tomorrow at the second glass after dawn. Then we will see what we must do.”
36
West of Itzel, Neserea
Clayre eases the shutter of the small dwelling ajar and peers out at the fat and fast-falling flakes of snow that have so quickly re-covered the roads and even the field that had shown signs of brown in the days previous.
“Already two spans’ worth has fallen, and the clouds are darker than earlier in the day.”
From behind her, Diltyr shakes his head.
So does the gray-haired lancer captain who paces back and forth before the heap of embers in the small hearth--the remnants of the fire set at midday, after Clayre and her forces had taken refuge from the sudden storm in the nameless hamlet.
“Even the weather is against us,” mutters Diltyr.
“At this time of year,” Clayre responds, “the weather is against all. The harmonies care not if we need fair weather.” She
closes and fastens the shutters once more, then steps toward the low embers, where she bends forward to warm her hands.
“If we must wait out the storm, will not Belmar soon discern your sorcery?” asks the captain.
“No. The storm makes it less likely. Were it clear and sunny, he would wonder why his glass shows me in Nysl's keep. Now . . . he will not question.” Her lips tighten. “So . . . while we have made little progress toward his forces, we are no worse off. Not for the moment”
“But . . . the storm will fill the roads and passes, and it will be longer yet before any aid can reach us,” suggests the chief player.
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