Shadowsinger

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The sounds of the players tuning rose from the main deck, drifting aft to Secca and Alcaren, only to die away abruptly.

  “First warm-up, at my mark,” ordered Palian. “Mark!”

  As the warm-up song filled the air, Secca walked forward across the poop deck, until she stood just aft of the railing overlooking the main deck. From there, she watched, her eyes finding Bretnay, and then Elset, the woodwind player. Both looked to be in good form.

  Alcaren stepped up beside her, offering an inquiring gesture toward the south. “How much longer before we must spellsing?”

  “I do not know. They’re closing but slowly, and that bothers me. What if they have some sorcery that strikes from even more distance than does our storm spell?”

  “They could,” he said, “but I cannot imagine what that might be.”

  “That does not mean they do not have such.”

  Alcaren nodded slowly.

  The two glanced to the starboard side of the poop deck where Richina stood, a faint smile on her face, a face somehow older than before. Secca wondered just what it was that made the younger sorceress look older, but her thought was interrupted by a distant, whistling roaring that slowly grew until it rose over the sound of the players’ warm-up tune, its intensity seeming to vibrate the very deck of the Silberwelle.

  Alcaren stiffened.

  Secca glanced to the south, but saw nothing, then turned aft, to the west, but saw nothing except for the sails of the other Ranuan ships. A hissing roar shook Secca as something passed overhead, coming not from the south, but out of the northeast. A gout of water geysered into the air less than a dek to the south of the Silberwelle, and even as the spout subsided a froth of steamy fog formed above the dark blue waters of the Bitter Sea.

  Secca watched for a moment, openmouthed, but the fog began to shred and dissipate within moments. “Huge fireballs…What…what kind of sorcery…is that?”

  Another whistling roar began to rise out of the north.

  “We need to sing. Now!” She turned and took three steps toward the railing overlooking the main deck where, below her, the players had finished the warm-up—or perhaps Palian had halted it.

  Alcaren followed and drew up beside her at the railing.

  As if Palian had not a care in all Erde, the chief player called up to Secca, “Your players stand ready.”

  “The first building song—on your mark!” Secca ordered.

  “The first building song, on my mark. Mark!”

  Alcaren coughed, as if trying to clear his throat, caught unaware, but somehow his baritone was there, matching and joining Secca, with the beginning of the words of the spellsong.

  “Water boil and water bubble

  like a caldron of sorcerers’ trouble…”

  In the moments when Secca was singing the last words of the first stanza, the second fireball roared overhead, so close to the Silberwelle that Secca could feel the heat, and with such a rush of wind that she found herself swaying on her feet. Somehow, she managed to keep the words, images, and rhythm all together as she and Alcaren began the second stanza. So did the players.

  A dull boom shivered the Silberwelle. Even with that, the players did not falter, and the two singers continued with the spellsong. Secca concentrated especially on waterspouts spread widely enough to destroy the scattered Sturinnese vessels as she came to the last phrases.

  “…crewed by those in Sea-Priest white

  and let none escape the water’s might!”

  The by-now-too-familiar sounds of wind and water and forming storms began to rise, even over the hissing of another gout of steam rising out of the dark waters of the Bitter Sea aft of the Silberwelle. Three patches of mist obscured the view so that she could not see clearly the other Ranuan vessels.

  In the distance between Secca and the groups of sails that were the Sturinnese, dark spouts began to form, first as hazy patches of air, then as darker wedges, and finally as black funnels rising out of the dark waters of the Bitter Sea. The funneled waterspouts seemed darker…more menacing than those Secca had raised in the isles of Sturinn.

  Secca gripped the railing, exhausted, just hanging on, as the skies continued to darken, and the wind to rise, whipping her short red hair around her face. Her head and body ached, and daystars flashed before eyes that had trouble focusing.

  Alcaren stood beside her, breathing deeply, also with both hands on the railing.

  “Lady Sorceress!”

  At the words from the Ranuan ship mistress, Secca turned.

  “Those fireballs.” Denyst was shouting to lift her voice above the rushing and roaring of the winds. “Struck two of ours. One was the Liedmeer. Can’t tell about the other. Will there be any more?”

  Rather than fight the wind and strain her voice, Secca offered an exaggerated shrug. You hope there won’t be, but who knows?

  “Sorceress!” The ship mistress suddenly jabbed a hand in the direction of Secca’s right. “There!”

  Secca turned to see Richina sprawled on the deck, the younger woman’s body sliding toward the railing. Alcaren moved first, darting around Secca and reaching the fallen sorceress just before Secca did.

  Needle-like droplets of rain began to sting Secca’s exposed neck and face, and the skies continued to darken. The roaring of the wind took on a howling overtone.

  “Get her below! Best get everyone below!” Denyst called. “Another blow coming. Won’t be so bad as the last, but won’t be easy.”

  “Clear the decks!” came a call from somewhere. “Clear the decks!”

  “Storm rigging! Storm rigging!”

  “Players below!” ordered Palian, a rasping edge to her voice.

  Alcaren lifted Richina, almost as if she were a child, although the younger woman was as tall as he was. “Go! Wait at the bottom of the ladder in case I need help.”

  Secca hesitated.

  “Now!”

  With a quick look backward, the redheaded sorceress turned and made for the ladder, squinting to make her way through the increasingly heavy rain and the daystars that flashed in front of her eyes. By the time she was on the main deck, Alcaren was at the top, Richina over his shoulder. He started down.

  His boots came down hard on the planks of the main deck, and Secca reached out to steady him as he turned toward the hatch door that led aft. Secca held the door, and Alcaren carried the limp form into the passageway and then into the first small cabin.

  Palian appeared in the passageway behind Secca. “If you would let me see her, lady?”

  “Of course.” Secca stepped back, flattening herself against the bulkhead.

  The chief player and healer slipped into the small cabin behind Alcaren, who had laid Richina on the lower bunk. He slipped back as the chief player entered. The space, Secca judged, was barely larger than one of the wardrobes in Lord Robero’s suite in Falcor, and she stood in the doorway because there was no space for her to enter.

  “What happened?” asked Palian.

  “After the fireballs flew by,” Alcaren said, “while we were singing the spellsong, she collapsed.” He glanced up at Secca.

  Secca opened her mouth. For a moment, no words came as she realized what must have happened. Finally, she spoke. “Those…fireballs…they were sorcery…”

  “The wards?” asked Alcaren.

  “They kept them from hitting the Silberwelle,” Secca said.

  “But not the other ships?”

  Secca had no answer, but had to reach out and brace herself against the bulkhead as the Silberwelle listed to port, then pitched forward.

  “She’s breathing, Lady Secca,” Palian said, “but she is very weak.”

  “Chief player,” Alcaren said. “Can the players perform the ward spell?”

  Palian looked up, and Secca turned.

  “We need the wards, it is clear,” her consort said quietly. “Lady Richina has done all she can for now. I must hold them.”

  The redheaded sorceress finally nodded.

&nbs
p; “In a few moments…” began Palian.

  The Silberwelle pitched forward, this time abruptly enough that Alcaren had to brace himself against the bulkhead to avoid slamming into Secca.

  “After the storm subsides,” Secca suggested. “We would lose players and more on the deck now.” She doubted that anyone would be doing much sorcery for the next few glasses. You hope so. Repressing a sigh, she looked back toward Palian and the unconscious Richina.

  “She will recover,” predicted the chief player.

  Secca hoped so. All around her, others were paying the price for sorcery. Another two ships had perished, if not more, with crews and lancers from both Loiseau and Encora. Richina had fallen on the deck of the Silberwelle. The Maitre was burning his way across Neserea toward Defalk.

  And for all of that, Secca had yet to set foot on land in Liedwahr.

  104

  In the gray light of an overcast morning that oozed, green-tinged, into the tiny cabin, Secca sat on the edge of the lower bunk and handed Richina yet another sliver of bread, then offered her a cup of water. The younger sorceress sipped quietly for a moment and, after letting Secca take the cup back, slowly chewed another morsel of bread.

  “I feel so weak…” Richina murmured.

  “Keep eating, and it will pass.” Secca did not look directly at the deep and dark circles under the younger woman’s eyes, nor at the reddish welt along her jawline that was already beginning to purple.

  “Not in time, I fear.”

  “In time for what?” asked Secca with a laugh. “It will be another two days at least before we port in Lundholn. Just eat and rest for now.”

  “Do we have a signal? From the Council Leader?”

  “Not yet…but it could take almost a week to get a message to Lundholn by messenger.”

  “Am I so tired…just from the wards?”

  Secca shook her head. “The Sturinnese sent those firebolts against us. They were guided by sorcery…”

  “The wards moved them?”

  “We think so. You collapsed after the second one just missed the Silberwelle. Alcaren and I think the effort to protect us caused that. We may never know with certainty.” Secca offered a rueful smile. “I would not wish to see such again.”

  “We are unprotected?” Richina lurched upright, as if alarmed.

  “No. Everything is fine.” Secca leaned forward, easing Richina back against the thin single blanket folded into a pillow. “You need not worry. Alcaren took over the wards this morning.”

  “I am so sorry I failed you, Lady Secca. I am so sorry…I tried, but I was so tired—”

  “Nonsense,” replied Secca tartly. “You allowed us to destroy the Sturinnese fleet. The very last Sea-Priest fleet. If you had not held the wards, we could not have done that.” She extended the cup of water. “You need to drink some more.”

  Richina took another swallow of water. “You’ll have to do everything now…if Alcaren…” She yawned. “So…tired.”

  Secca shook her head. “You’ll have time to recover. Now…you need to rest.”

  Once she had Richina—already half-asleep—settled back into the narrow bunk, Secca eased out of the tiny cabin and made her way up to the poop deck, where she found Denyst and Alcaren beside the helm platform.

  A faint chill drizzle fell from the formless gray clouds overhead, and while the wind was stronger than before the battle, it was still comparatively light. Without full forward speed and the heavier swells, the Silberwelle seemed, at least to Secca, to be pitching more, and she grabbed the taffrail for support.

  “How is she?” asked Alcaren.

  “I got her to eat more, and she’s sleeping.” Secca shook her head. “She looks so tired and frail. Weeks ago, she was a strong, almost strapping, young woman.”

  “Sorcery,” commented Denyst. “What it does to others is terrible, but it takes a terrible toll on you sorceresses. And sorcerers,” she added as her eyes fell on Alcaren.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “One of those fireballs struck the Liedmeer,” Denyst said. “And another took the Morgenstern. She was one of the ships you captured for us. Not a trace of either. Did your glass show aught?”

  Alcaren shook his head. “There was no sign of either, nor of any Sturinnese ship.”

  “Didn’t think it could be done, Lady Sorceress,” Denyst said. “Oceans swept clean of the Sea-Pigs. Had it been any others, would have felt poorly at their fate. Terrible it was, and no more than they deserved.”

  “It’s far from over,” Secca said slowly. “Unless we can defeat the Maitre, it will just go on and on.”

  “We cannot just defeat him, my love,” Alcaren replied. “Defeat the Sturinnese never accept. We must destroy him, or he will destroy us.”

  Secca’s lips tightened, even as she nodded. He’s already destroyed so many. Why is it that everything you do hurts those around you and those who follow you? Why must you destroy all the Sturinnese just in order to survive? Why?

  She didn’t have an answer. Not really, although she knew that what Alcaren had said was true, and that everything that had happened in the past year was proof of that.

  Proof or not…an enormous blanket of sadness wrapped itself around her as she looked aft, back west. Back across the dark waters that held too many shattered ships and broken bodies.

  105

  Northwest of Elioch, Neserea

  The white-clad lancers are unfastening the side panels of the Maitre’s tent. The remaining panels flap in the stiff breeze, but the Maitre remains seated on the folding stool behind the camp table, even as his tent is being disassembled around him, studying the scrying glass and the image of empty dark blue waters it holds.

  On the other side of the table, still standing and holding the angular lute, is jerClayne, his forehead damp. His eyes are dark-rimmed and bloodshot.

  The Maitre looks up from the scrying glass, his eyes cold. “Two ships…that is all? Two ships? JerStolk lost an entire fleet of two and a half-score vessels to destroy two ships?”

  The younger Sea-Priest remains mute.

  “I have spent a lifetime building Sturinn. I have spent a score of years creating ships and fleets. The moment I am not there, there is failure! One small woman. One! And she has turned them all into mewling children! A fleet commander, and he has five times the number of ships, and all are armed. He has a half-score of sorcerers, and he can destroy but two ships! Two unarmed ships crewed by women!”

  “Yes, ser,” murmurs jerClayne.

  “Were he not already dead…” The Maitre shakes his head. “Incompetent idiot! And now the Ranuans have more ships than do we. Never…seven ships, and they have more than do the Sea-Priests of Sturinn. How did this happen?”

  “Her storm sorcery…their wards…”

  “They are still warded, are they not?” asks the Maitre.

  “Ah…yes, ser,” replies jerClayne. “That is, we cannot use the glass to view the sorceresses or the consort of the shadowsinger. Or the Assistant Sorceress of Defalk.”

  “Two sorceresses—one of them barely more than a girl—and a Ranuan tool of that weakling Matriarch…” The older Sea-Priest stops, as if at a loss for words. “A half-score of our sorcerers—gone.”

  “They were on different vessels, as you ordered,” jerClayne points out.

  “Did they even try sorcery against them after the firebolts?”

  “How could we tell, Maitre?”

  The Maitre’s eyes harden, as does his voice. “We must do better. Much better. We will do better.”

  The younger Sea-Priest does not speak.

  “You say nothing, but your eyes ask me how.” A tight smile appears on the Maitre’s face. “It is simple. We make her hasten. We ride directly to Defalk…and there we begin to ravage the country. We turn keeps into piles of stone. We do not kill the peasants, but we kill the lords and the merchants. We move to where we have an advantage, and then we wait while she comes to us.”

  “What abo
ut the other sorceress, ser? The one protecting Lord Robero?”

  “She has fled from Falcor, did you not say?”

  “That we know. She is in one of the western keeps.” Tilting his head slightly, jerClayne frowns. “Dubaria. She also is warded.”

  “Then…we will bring it down around her. When we get there. We will take Denguic first, and then Fussen so that we need not worry about troublesome lords following us…and so that those in Dubaria will know what we can do.”

  “What of Lord Robero and Falcor?”

  “Once we have crushed his sorceresses, what can he do? Many of the old lords will prefer a rule under our sufferance to one under that of the sorceresses…and those who do not will either submit or perish. They will indeed.” His voice rises into a laugh.

  “Submit or perish,” repeats jerClayne, a hollow smile on his gaunt face, even as his eyes glitter almost as much as those of the Maitre.

  106

  Secca stood beside Denyst near the helm platform as the Silberwelle edged toward the single long pier that jutted out almost half a dek from the semicircular stone shingle beach. Alcaren stood by the starboard railing, trying to ignore the ship’s motion. The wind had picked up over the past days, and Denyst had shifted the sails into harbor rig well out from the port. With the wind had come clouds, still high and gray and scudding southward swiftly, and higher waves.

  Secca herself felt better than she had in weeks, but when she glanced at Alcaren, she could see the tiredness in his eyes, and she still worried about Richina.

  “No lancers, no armsmen?” asked the ship mistress again, as if to make certain, even though Secca’s glass had shown the blue banner flying, to confirm the Council’s agreement with a landing by Secca’s force.

  “The glass shows none,” Secca confirmed. “None except two officers and a single squad of lancers.” She gestured toward Elfens, the chief archer, and his squad.

  As if he had seen her gesture, the long-faced archer turned and inclined his head. “We stand ready, Lady Secca.”

  “We shouldn’t need you, Elfens, but we’d rather be prepared.”