The ShadowSinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Secca shook her head once more. “I need to find some parchment or vellum.” She leafed through the papers on the table another time, then looked into the covered bin.

  “You have no more parchment left?" asked Alcaren.

  The redheaded sorceress shook her head. "We are short on much.”

  “Find one of those scrolls sent to you that you can do without. We will have to make a palimpsest. I can do that while you put down your thoughts.”

  Secca turned to one of the saddlebags, opening it, and checking the scrolls one by one, then stopping and handing one to Alcaren.

  He looked at it and then smiled. “Perhaps it is best that these words of Jolyn be erased.”

  “I thought so.” Secca reseated herself at the table.

  Alcaren began to sharpen his belt knife.

  “You don’t mind doing that?” Secca asked as she leaned forward, looking for a section of paper on which to draft her thoughts.

  “It’s simple work,” he replied. “Much easier than saying or composing a scroll to the Council Leader. It also keeps me from recalling that I am upon a ship.”

  “You’re doing better, I think.”

  “No. We have been fortunate that the weather has not been too bad, except at times.”

  “The times when I created storms.”

  Alcaren shrugged. “Better to feel uneasy than to have been sunk by the Sea-Priests.”

  Secca laughed gently. “I’d better get to writing this. I want a few days of rest after sending it.”

  Alcaren nodded, then bent forward, using the new-sharpened edge of the knife to scrape away the dark ink, letter by letter, line by line, until the parchment appeared to have been used not at all. He studied the apparently clean surface, then took the knife and went back over several sec­tions.

  By then, Secca was straightening. “Would you read this?”

  “I’d be happy to.” He wiped the knife blade before sheathing it, then took the rough brown paper sheets from his consort

  As Alcaren read, Secca stood behind him and reread the lines.

  . . . the Maitre of Sturinn is laying waste to Neserea . . .heading toward Defalk and will most likely turn north to Nordwei...if he is not halted...Stura has been destroyed and will not pose a threat for generations to come--- if the Sturinnese forces in Liedwahr are de­stroyed...

  Therefore, we are requesting your permission to land at Lundholn and disembark our forces to travel south along the road to Morgen and from there to Nordfels . . . quickest route to reach Defalk, and speed is most necessary...

  We have some limited golds with which to purchase supplies and quarters, as necessary, and will pledge not to forage off your people. . . if you and your Council agree, we would suggest that you raise a pale blue ban­ner on a pole at the end of the pier in Lundholn, where it can be seen easily by glass or from a vessel . . .

  When he finished, Alcaren looked up. “It is good. Perhaps . . . you might consider a few words about how Wei and Defalk have been such good neighbors in recent years, and how you look forward to that continuing once the Sturinnese are vanquished.”

  “Implying that if they don’t let us use their roads, they’ll have far worse neighbors?”

  “I had thought that,” he admitted. “So should they.”

  “So they should,” Secca agreed. “Is there aught else?”

  He shook his head. “Not so far as scrolls might go . . .”

  His eyes flicked past her toward the double bunk.

  "We will, see, dearest consort, after the scroll is written, and dispatched.” Despite the sternness of her words, she could not help flushing, and hoped that the lingering redness of her face covered it, even as she tried to hide a smile.

  99

  Wei, Nordwei

  Ashtaar looks neither surprised nor even puzzled when the bronze tube appears upon her table-desk, although she has to fumble with the green cloth and another she takes from the single drawer in the table in order to pry off the cap of the tube of blistering metal.

  She ignores the burns on the wood and the slight redden­ing on one aged hand as she reads the brief scroll. After she finishes reading, she begins once more until she comes to a line, which she murmurs aloud, if but to herself, “we are requesting your permission to land at Lundholn . . .” After a single barklike laugh, she says, “At least, she is request­ing.”

  After re-rolling the scroll, she takes the small bell from the drawer and rings it twice. She does not have to wait long before the door opens, and Escadra appears.

  “You rang, Leader Ashtaar?"

  “I am calling an immediate meeting of the Council. At the sixth glass.”

  “Leader . . . this is six-day. Many will not be—”

  “Then they will not be there. This cannot wait.”

  Escadra bobs her head up and down.

  “You may tell those who are in Wei that I am not losing my mind or my temper, but that it concerns the threat of invasion of Nordwei by the Maitre. If they wish no part of the decision, why then, I will act in the Council’s name.”

  The chunky seer’s eyes widen.

  Ashtaar stands. “Since it takes me longer than once it did to walk to the other end of the building, I will begin now.” She smiles politely, but her dark eyes are cold.

  Escadra bows quickly. “Yes, Leader. I will find all those that I can and send messengers for the others.”

  “Only if they are in Wei.”

  The seer nods once more and scurries out.

  Ashtaar, for all her words about age, leaves her small audience chamber and study briskly. She walks quickly along the dark-paneled corridor until she comes to the steps. Her sole concession to age is her use of the handrail as she descends.

  She is the first counselor to reach the Council chamber, but Escadra has sent word to someone, because the oil lamps in the bronze wall sconces are all lit. With a nod, Ashtaar takes the center place at the long dark table and sits down to wait.

  The Lady of the Shadows is the next to arrive in the Council chamber, and she bows to Ashtaar. “Did I not tell you that the Sorceress Protector of Defalk would cause great difficulty?”

  “You did, but I believe she is going to cause great diffi­culty for the Maitre, as I will explain when all are here who choose to come.”

  “It should be most interesting, especially on how you plan to keep us out of the problem after our fleet has acted as a decoy for the sorceress.”

  Ashtaar but nods as a second member of the Council ap­pears—Marshal Zeltaar, wearing a black informal uniform. The marshal seats herself to the left of Ashtaar without speaking.

  Next is High Trader Fuhlar, who swirls off a hooded golden cloak to reveal his customary apparel---brown trou­sers with gold piping, and a rich brown tunic also trimmed with gold. He hangs the cloak on one of the ancient wooden pegs set beside the door for such a purpose, and surveys the table, then takes a position directly across from the marshal.

  Three others ease in, but only the third---a hard-faced blonde woman wearing dark green and silver---turns and speaks. “I trust this will be well worth our time, Ashtaar.”

  “Oh, it will, Adgan. Even you, I think, will find it so.” Ashtaar surveys the chamber. “There are enough for us to proceed.”

  “This is most irregular,” offers the brown-clad Fuhlar. “On a six-day, late on a six-day, no less.”

  Ashtaar holds up a heat-tarnished bronze tube. “So is this. Do any of you recognize what this might be?”

  Fuhlar shakes his head. The hint of a smile plays across Marshal Zeltaar’s mouth, but she does not speak

  The Lady of the Shadows is the one to break the silence. “I would gather it is a message tube, one that a sorceress could employ to send a message a great distance. That you have it means that the Shadow Sorceress has sent it to you, and that greater mischief is brewing.”

  “A message from the Shadow Sorceress?" questions Adgan. “A mere message—”

  “As the lady has suggested,”
Ashtaar states firmly, inter­rupting Adgan, “this message arrived by sorcery. We have known that the Sea-Priests will sometimes send messages en­graved on brass by sorcery. I had not known that the sorcer­esses of Defalk also had found a way to do the same—”

  “How can they without the paper---"

  “They use parchment, which resists heat far better than paper, and they send it in this bronze tube lined with a gray substance that keeps the tube from getting hot enough to char the parchment. That is not the reason for the meeting. The message request is. The sorceress is requesting passage through Nordwei to return to Defalk She is requesting the use of the stone road from Lundholn to Morgen, and thence to Nordfels. The Sea-Priests are using sorcery to destroy all of Nescrea. Every span of land along the Saris River has been burned to ashes. The Sea-Priests are beginning to do the same as they follow the road along the River Saria to­ward Elioch.”

  “Why does she want---"

  “Insane . . ."

  “Cannot let her . . ."

  “Quiet!” snaps Ashtaar. “She knows of the old paved road from Lundholn to Morgen. She would take the pass to Nord­fels, and then the metaled road created by the great sorceress down to Denguic. As I told you two days ago, the Shadow Sorceress has destroyed all the cities and half the land on the isle of Stura. This is a grave insult to any man of Stu­rinn” Ashtaar laughs, a hard and ironic sound--- “and the Sturinnese have gone mad. There is a great sorcerer, perhaps the Maitre himself, in Neserea. The sorceress would use our roads to get to hers to head off and attack the Sturinnese. She pledged to pay for provisions and not to forage off our people.”

  “Even if we do agree to this . . .” asks Fuhlar, “how would we let her know we accept?"

  “She requests that we fly a plain blue banner on a tall staff at the end of the pier in Lundholn.”

  “How---?"

  “She will see it in her glass,” Ashtaar says tartly. “We need to decide. Do we give the sorceress the means to stop this insanity on her lands before it gets farther out of hand, or do we refuse her passage and have both Defalk and Stu­rinn at our throats?”

  “I do not believe---" “begins Fuhlar.

  “You’re an ass, Fuhlar, if you think it stands any other way,” snaps Ashtaar.

  “While I would not use such terms,” adds the lady in black, “I do believe that the Council Leader has stated this situation accurately.”

  “You who oppose all sorcery would allow a sorceress to cross Nordwei?" asks Adgan.

  “That is why,” replies the Lady of the Shadows. “These two will fight a terrible sorcerous battle. Nothing we can do will stop that. Therefore, the sooner this battle is fought, and the farther from Nordwei, the less we will suffer.”

  “You have said little, marshal,” said Fuhlar, almost win­ningly.

  “What else is there to say?” asks the officer in her black uniform. ‘We could not stop the sorceress if we wished, and we would lose all the lancers we could send against her. She has pledged not to harm our people and to pay for what she takes. She is desperate to reach Defalk before it is totally destroyed. Would you stand in her way?"

  “Ah . . . no.” Fuhlar frowns, then adds, “but could we not refuse to grant her permission, but not actually oppose her. That way, if the Sturinnese do prevail . . ."

  “We could claim we were invaded?” suggests Marshal Zeltaar.

  “While that sounds most reasonable,” Ashtaar replies, “it is stupid and foolish. The Sturinnese hate us already, not because of our allies, but because we are ocean traders and rivals. Should they defeat the sorceress, they will destroy us whether we support her or not. We gain nothing by refusing permission, and should the sorceress win, we well may lose far more.”

  Fuhlar had begun to open his mouth, but he does not finish whatever he might have said and closes it abruptly.

  “Exactly,” the marshal concludes. “We might also be best served by sending messengers to Lundholn and Morgen to tell all those there, and to suggest that the merchants and chandlers offer a fair price. They should not give away goods, but at this time, it is not a good idea to charge in excess.”

  “But . . .“ protests Fuhlar, “we should not even profit from our generosity?”

  “You will profit, Fuhlar,” Ashtaar says smoothly. “We will not have to fight on our lands, even if the worst occurs, until much later. If the sorceress wins, we will control all the trade in the Western Sea, and that should be more than enough profit for any of your trading cronies.”

  Fuhlar looks down at the table.

  “There is one more matter--- the heirs of Dumar and Nes­erea. Marshal Zeltaar had agreed to provide them transport, but we now have a quicker alternative that will send them farther from the Maitre, as well as upon the ocean while the conflict proceeds.”

  "Why . . .?"

  “Again, it cannot hurt,” Ashtaar says, “especially if the Shadow Sorceress does not know, and there should be no reason for her to learn.”

  “You could turn them over to her,” suggests Fuhlar.

  “I dislike having all coins in a single strongbox, and so should you.”

  The trader nods reluctantly.

  “I gather we are agreed,” Ashtaar says. “I will have mes­sengers sent to Lundholn and Morgen.”

  Not a single figure seated around the table objects.

  100

  Secca had her green leather riding jacket fastened as shestood near the bow of the Silberwelle, beside Alcaren. The swells had increased once more, and the water of the Northern Ocean was a dark blue that seemed almost black, even in the midday sunlight The spray from the bow was fine and chill, almost like mist, and she had to blot it off her face frequently---and gently. To the south, she could make out a fine dark line on the horizon---the northeastern coast of Mansuur, east of the Circle of Fire.

  “I know we travel faster than if we rode,” she said to her consort, “yet I feel we do nothing. Before long we will have to deal with the Sturinnese fleet, and that will take time . . ." Her words faded into the chill breeze.

  “Need we deal with them?” asked Alcaren. “If they re­main to the south, close to Esaria, then we could sail directly to Lundholn.”

  Seeca’s brows wrinkled in thought. “That would leave them behind us, and once we disembarked, there would be little protection for the ships.”

  “If they were far enough south---"

  “Then we could disembark and Denyst could leave,” Secca finished his sentence. “The Sturinnese would not dare to chase her ships and leave the Maitre unsupported.” Yet who truly knows what they would do?

  “That might be.”

  “And it might not.” Secca shook her head. “When we go below, we will use the glass and see where the ships are---if we can.” She shivered, and reached up to refasten her riding jacket against the chill. ‘It’s colder now.”

  ‘It is, and the water will get even colder now that we are close to the Bitter Sea,” Alcaren said, his eyes still looking eastward at the empty sea before them. “Does the cold air help your face?”

  “It feels better in the chill air. I don’t know as it helps much. I’ll still have scars, I fear,” Secca replied.

  “You may not. Even the lines where Fehern threw the acid-water are beginning to fade.”

  The sorceress shook her head. “I still cannot say I un­derstand his acts.”

  “You understand, my lady.” Alcaren’s tone is wry.

  “Oh...I know why he did what he did---just as I know why the Sturinnese act as they do. But I cannot say that I understand within my heart why they take such pleasure in forcing others to do as they wish, or in wanting to make sure women have little power and less say in how matters are run. Some of it makes little sense. Lord Robero would have nothing, were it not for the sorceresses. He would be dead and have been lying in an unmarked grave for nearly thirty years. Yet, he listens to those who counsel him against sorceresses?”

  "We all believe what we wish to believe,” Alcaren said.
/>
  “I know, and that also is frightening. How much do I delude myself into believing what I do is good, because that is what I wish to believe?"

  “At least you ask such questions.” Alcaren laughs. “The Sea-Priests follow their beliefs without questioning, and without looking at the world beyond.”