The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You knew, Leader?” asks the Escadra.

  “There was a great disruption in the harmonies,” Ashtaar replies. “I did not know what caused it, but I was confident you would discover the cause. What created this disrup­tion?"

  “The Shadow Sorceress--- we think. It has been most dif­ficult,” Escadra says slowly. “When we have tried to scry the Shadow Sorceress, we have seen but images of our­selves. So we have had to scry everything around her. The Ranuan ships are now headed eastward, we think toward Neserea, but they are too far at sea yet to tell.”

  Ashtaar frowns for a time.

  The heavyset Escadra shifts her weight slightly in the straight-backed wooden chair and waits.

  Abruptly, Ashtaar laughs. “She is using a ward that mir­rors sorcery, or something like it.” She shakes her head. "Few are skilled and strong enough to do that. Especially after creating such destruction. Few indeed." After a pause, she asks, “What else can you tell me?”

  “The isle of Trinn is greatly damaged by waves, and smoke and ash fall on most all of the inner isles of Sturinn.”

  “Was there any sorcery to oppose the sorceress? Any ships to attack hers?”

  “Only those which attacked near the Ostisles.”

  “Most strange. Most strange.” Ashtaar covers her mouth with the heavy green cloth and coughs, if but once. Then she takes a sip from the beaker. “Dreadful draught. Hope you never have to drink it, Escadra.”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  Ashtaar laughs once more, a sound almost like a cackle. “All you young people think that you will be forever strong, that perhaps your hair will turn, but you will be strong enough and your minds will never wander, nor your lungs wheeze. It is not so. You either die young and strong, or live till you are old and weak. All die. The Maitre may well discover that in the weeks ahead.”

  “The Maitre? Did he not---"

  “He could not have so perished. He would have used sorcery to protect Stura. Also, that would explain the most timely death of the Lord Belmar. Yes, it would. The Maitre is with the Sturinnese in Neserea, and he has been for some time.”

  “How---"

  “It is easy to see such in hindsight, but never has a Maitre left Sturinn before. Never has one gone elsewhere and hid­den himself. Why would anyone think of that? Until now." Ashtaar clears her throat yet again. “We had best hope that the shadowsinger returns swiftly.”

  “We?”

  “The Maitre is most wroth, I would judge. He had no love of Liedwahr before this. Do you think he does not know what she has done?"

  "We are not of Defalk.”

  “No. That means that he will ravage Neserea and Defalk, and then either Ranuak or Nordwei. That is, if the Shadow Sorceress does not stop him.” Ashtaar sighs. “Write me a statement. of what you have discovered. Have the scribes make ten copies for the Council meeting.”

  “Yes, Leader.”

  Ashtaar waves the seer toward the door.

  Even before the seer has closed the door and departed, Ashtaar’s head is tilted, and her dark eyes focus elsewhere, as her fingers idly stroke the dark agate oval on her table-desk.

  94

  Secca awoke with a start. The space in the bunk beside her was empty . . . and cool. Perhaps Alcaren had gotten too hot, or the pitching of the Silberwelle had made him uncomfortable enough that he had gone topside for some fresh air. She stretched and closed her eyes.

  Even behind closed eyes, she could see once more the clouds of ash and the glowing of molten rock . . . and hear the screams and cries she had caused. What were you sup­posed to do? Let them chain every woman in Liedwahr and tear out the tongue of every one who might become a sor­ceress? Or fight the good fight, but only so far, so that someone else will have to fight it ten or thirty years from now?

  Closing her eyes hadn’t helped. Neither did staring at the overhead. She still kept debating and arguing with herself.

  Finally, she sat up and threw on the rest of her clothes, ignoring the pain as her tunic scraped her blistered and still-sore face. Her head throbbed more when she bent forward to pull on her boots. Then she made her way out of the cabin and up toward the bow. There, in the grayness before dawn, she found Alcaren, on the starboard side, facing into the occasional spray.

  To the east, low in the sky, she could see both moons, the white disc of Clearsong and the red point of light that was Darksong, seemingly less than a yard apart in The sky. She wondered if the near conjunction foreshadowed more turmoil—or merely reflected what had happened.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  “After you left, neither could I. I just kept thinking about Stura.”

  “You did what had to be done.”

  “Did I?” she asked. “Could I have done it another way?”

  “Yes,” Alcaren said. “You could have tried to land, and risked being killed, If you succeeded in landing, you would have had to kill almost every man on the isles, probably even some of the women, and you would have lost lancers and players. By then, the Sturinnese in Neserea would have gathered their lancers and their fleets and returned, and then you would have been trapped, unless you created almost as great a series of sorceries. And after all that, in another ten years, or a score of years at most, the Sea-Priests would be back trying to take Liedwahr with even greater sorcery. That’s what they’ve been doing for generations.”

  “I keep telling myself things like that. It doesn’t help.”

  “No . . . it doesn’t. It never does. We find it hard to accept that sometimes death and destruction are the only solutions if we want to survive.”

  “I don’t know that this was the only solution,” Secca re­plied.

  “In a perfect world, it wasn’t,” Alcaren admitted. “But we don’t have a perfect world. Your Lord Robero is weak and will sell you out to keep his throne. The Matriarch will not take on the Ladies of the Shadows. Lord Fehern would kill his brother to rule as a Sturinnese puppet, and nothing short of their total destruction will keep the Sea-Priests out of Liedwahr. They believe that their way is the only way---"

  “And we believe ours is,” Secca said.

  “That’s true.” Alcaren paused. “But there is one big dif­ference. You didn’t invade Sturinn. You didn’t try to con­quer three lands that didn’t believe as you do.”

  “Not at first, but . . .“ Secca shook her head. The words always ended the same, and Stura was gone.

  Alcaren reached out and squeezed her hand.

  "What happens next?" Secca asked softly.

  “We put our feet on solid ground, and I feel better,” Al­caren replied, dryly. “In another week or longer.”

  Secca laughed softly. “I’m sorry that I’ve put you through this. I know you never wanted to go to sea again.”

  “The harmonies have a fine sense of humor,” he replied.

  “I meant after the battles and the sorcery,” she said.

  “You keep being a sorceress.”

  “And what about you?”

  “You’ll keep teaching me how to be a sorcerer. I hope you will.”

  Secca looked forward as the Silberwelie rode through a swell, spray flying past her, and fine droplets of saltwater mist settling on her. “Life isn’t just about doing things.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “It requires us to do a lot so that we can have time, if we are fortunate, for other things, to enjoy each other, or to watch a sunset without worrying what it means for the battle ahead . . ."

  "What other things? It seems so long since I’ve thought of anything but sorcery and Sea-Priests.”

  “Do you want children?” he asked softly.

  Secca stood frozen. Children . . . she’d once hoped, but she’d seen how so many had grown up; She’d seen a boy named Jimbob go from a bully into a coward named Robero, despite everyone’s efforts. She’d seen her own brothers turn cruel, and be poisoned by an even crueler uncle.

  “You’re afraid . . . ... aren’t you?’

  She could n
ot look directly at him. “Do you?"

  He smiled sadly. “I don’t want them unless you do. You’re too strong a person.”

  “Too strong a person?” Secca laughed. “Every time I do great sorcery, I almost die.”

  “That is not what I meant, my lady.” He paused. “You know where my words lead.”

  Secca turned her head away. “I don’t want to talk about it now. I can’t.” How can I even think of children?

  95

  Secca had gathered the eight in the captain’s cabin in the early morning, hoping that the coolness of the day would help, but even so, the space was getting warm quickly, and her face, still tender, even warmer. As she stood by her seat, lutar in hand, she glanced around the circular table, and at two overcaptains and the two chief players who stood behind the chairs.

  “We still have to deal with the Sturinnese in Neserea,” Secca began, “and they have, a fleet somewhere in the Bitter Sea.”

  “You don’t believe that they’ll sail away and let us port at Esaria?" Alcaren’s voice carried a hint of mischief. “I cannot imagine why.”

  A few low chuckles followed his remarks. Palian shook her head, even as she smiled.

  “I thought I’d try to show where those ships might be,” Secca said, lifting her lutar.

  “Show us now where’er the Sea-Priests ships may be

  on a map that shows both Liedwahr and the Bitter

  Sea . . .”

  After Secca’s last words, the scrying glass in the middle of the captain’s circular table silvered and darkened. The outlines of the map were barely visible against the silvered background of the scrying glass, even in the comparative dimness of the cabin.

  Alcaren peered down at the image, finally pointing as he spoke. “They’re in the southern part of the Bitter Sea, but not too near Esaria."

  Secca sang the release spell and looked at her consort. ‘We also need to see how Esaria is faring.” She sat down.

  Alcaren eased himself out of his chair and checked the tuning on his lumand, before clearing his throat and singing.

  “Show us now and in clear sight

  Esaria in this morning’s light . . .”

  The second image was far brighter and clearer, but the scrying glass did not display the ordered structures and streets of a city, but of ruins, with thin trails of smoke rising from buildings smoldering on hilltops and pools of water scattered among what had been dwellings and shops and streets in the lower-lying lands. There was no sign of a waterfront or piers, just heaps of wreckage.

  “Fire and flood,” murmured Richina.

  Secca’s mouth almost dropped open in shock Why should you be shocked? Didn’t you know that the Sturinnese would strike back?

  “The Nesereans did not do anything to them,” Wilten said slowly.

  “It is a message to us,” Secca said.

  “It’s also a way of denying us any supplies in following them,” Alcaren added.

  “Following them?” blurted Richina.

  “To Defalk,” replied Alcaren. ‘That is how they think. They will not surrender. They will lay waste to all that they ride through, and they will try to destroy as much of Neserea and Defalk as they can.” He cleared his throat and sang the release couplet.

  The mirror blanked.

  “How long before we could reach Esaria?” Secca looked at Denyst.

  “Be but four days with good winds. The winds aren’t the best this time of year. We’re having to tack too much. Could be a week, or longer, if they don’t change,” replied the captain.

  Secca nodded slowly before she spoke, addressing her words to the chief players. “We will need the first building song again, and we will use the storm spellsong against ships.” She turned her head to face Denyst. “if we come in from the north, and they are the ones closest to the shore, will that make a difference?”

  “Aye . . . if the storms you call keep heading south. Oth­erwise...

  “We’ll have to go through what we did last time?” Secca said.

  “Might not be so bad,” replied Dényst. “Storms die out quicker in colder water. Don’t see many this time of year that far north.”

  Secca nodded slowly. “I need to think. Until tomorrow . . . unless anyone has anything I should know about.”

  There were headshakes around the table, and Secca stood. So did everyone else.

  After the others had filed out, Secca and Alcaren reseated themselves and looked at each other across the table.

  “I feared, but I was not certain,” she began. “They have already left Esaria . . ."

  “We travel faster than do they, and the roads will be muddy. We will have a chance to catch them---"

  “Who are ‘they’ ?” Secca asked. ‘What sorcerer would destroy a city for so little—” She laughed bitterly. “I should ask that?"

  “I wonder,” mused Alcaren. “I wonder.”

  Secca frowned. “You wonder what?”

  Her consort did not answer, but, instead, picked up the lumand and ran his fingers over the strings. After clearing his throat, he sang another scrying spellsong.

  “Show me now and in day’s clear light

  those whom for and with the Maitre fight. .

  The glass revealed a column of riders in white, riding eastward along a river road. Behind them, barely visible, rose trails of smoke from what Secca thought was a small hamlet.

  “They are indeed scorching the earth,” she noted, then she shook her head as she realized what else the image showed. “Of course! It makes sense. The Maitre was in Nes­erea all along. Do you think he was the one with Belmar?"

  Alcaren shrugged and smiled. “He was that one, or one in the background.”

  “I should have seen that sooner.” Secca shook her head. “How would you know?” asked Palian softly. “All the great sorcery till now was done by Belmar? No one in Lied­wahr has ever seen the Maitre—”

  “I would guess that we could not,” suggested Alcaren. “Let me try something else.” His voice began another. scrying song, this one asking to show the Maitre directly.

  The mirror blanked, revealing only the timbers of the overhead.

  “You see?” asked Alcaren.

  “He’s dead,” suggested Delvor.

  Secca shook her head. “We’d get blank silver with no image at all. As do we, he has wards.” After a long pause, she added, “We have wards, and he has wards.”

  “Why does that bother you so much?” Alcaren asked.

  “Because of where it leads,” she answered. ‘We have wards, and so does he. We destroy Stura, and he destroys Esaria. Do you think he is destroying absolutely everything along the rivers?”

  “Everything that does not take too much strength,” Al­caren said. “He will not weaken himself too much. Also, someone must be holding the wards, and that sorcerer can­not use his strength for destruction.”

  “There must be a better way than following them.” Secca frowned. “There must be . . ."

  Alcaren tilted his head. “Let me think. We should also talk to Denyst and perhaps Palian.”

  “Older and wiser heads?” asked Secca.

  “Wisdom and knowledge can save much effort,” Alcaren pointed out. “Someone told me that.” He grinned.

  “And we have made enough mistakes that we could have avoided?" Secca jabbed back.

  “No. But I think we could.” His eyes twinkled.

  “You are most difficult, my love.”

  “That is most necessary when one is consorted to a pow­erful sorceress."

  For a moment, they both smiled.

  96

  Mansuus, Mansuur

  The Liedfuhr of Mansuur stands in his under-tunic before the desk of his private study. His sky-blue tunic is laid across the back of the desk chair. He holds a lancer’s sabre and begins a series of exercises, then proceeds to fence, as if against an imaginary opponent. When he finally pauses, to wipe the sweat from his brow, there is a discreet knock on the study door.

 
“Yes?”

  “Overcaptain Bassil, sire.”

  “Have him enter.” Kestrin replaces the sabre in the scab­bard at his belt. Then, he shrugs and takes off the sword belt, laying belt, scabbard, and sword in one of the chairs set at an angle to the desk. He does not redon the tunic, but blots his still-damp forehead once more before turning to address the lancer officer. “Yes, Bassil?"