The Shadow Sorceress (13 page)

A man holds a stringed instrument, his eyes fixed on a small ingot of copper, a short bar of iron, and some strips of tin, all set on a polished circle of marble perhaps two spans in diameter. He sings, his fingers deft on the strings of the instrument.

As the notes of the song die away, a circle of blue light enfolds the marble and the objects upon it. Then, with the faintest of chords, unheard except to the singer, all the objects vanish to reveal a perfect white bronze rose upon an iron stem, lying upon the marble.

The door opens behind the singer, and the Matriarch enters, alone.

The man bows.

She steps forward and studies the rose. “It is truly beautiful, Alcaren.”

“I am glad that it pleases you, Matriarch, seeing as little that I do is pleasing these days.” The man who holds the small instrument, larger than a mandolin, yet smaller than the lutars introduced by the sorceress of Defalk, is broad-shouldered but narrow-waisted, too short for his breadth to be handsome, but not exactly stocky either. His hair is a nondescript brown,
cut short, as if he were a lancer, which he is not. His eyes are gray-blue, penetrating, but not piercing.

“Certainly, the self-pity of your words is less than pleasant,” counters Alya.

“What would you have of me?” Alcaren lowers the instrument.

“What do you call it—the instrument?”

“A lumand, I suppose. It's between a small lutar and a mandolin.”

“Are there others like it?”

“I do not know, but I would doubt such. It is made for my voice.”

“You have a voice both pleasant and true, and most effective. Yet you seem to lack the wisdom as to when it is wise to use it.”

Alcaren waits, not replying.

“Using sorcery to enchant the daughter of the Exchange Mistress was scarcely wise.”

“I did not use sorcery. I sang her some songs. I wrote them most carefully. There were no suggestions, and no commands. One was about a rose.” Alcaren gestures toward the white rose on the marble. “But not sorcery as you just heard.”

“When a sorcerer sings, it is considered sorcery.” Alya's voice is dry. “Whether it be so or not. You should have known better.”

“A mere man, and I am supposed to know such?”

“A cousin of the Matriarch, raised in this family and taught all we know, and you refuse to use that knowledge wisely or acknowledge it.” Alya shakes her head gently. “What am I to do with you?”

Alcaren shrugs. “I am good with a blade, and I ride well. You would not let me be a lancer.”

“The men's companies will not accept an officer who is a sorcerer,” Alya points out.

“And the women's won't accept a man,” Alcaren finishes. “I know. Why did you train me, then?”

“I had no choice. You were already making up songs and spells. You could have hurt yourself or others.”

“Better you had killed me.”

“The Harmonies have a use for you.”

“What? In more than a score and a quarter years, I have not seen such.”

“Be patient.”

“You came to tell me
that
?”

“No…I came to tell you that you are to be one of my personal guard chiefs. As you said, you are skilled with a blade, and I will give you leave to use two or three spells to protect me, as and if necessary.”

“You are more accomplished than I, Matriarch.”

“The times are changing, and I fear that the demands of being the Matriarch will mean that I can no longer be as watchful of myself as before.”

“The Sturinnese will maintain their blockade?” A glimmer of interest appears in the gray-blue eyes.

“More ships have left Sturinn, and they carry far more armsmen and lancers, and those of ours in the harbor are not armed to take the fight to those already arrayed to the south.”

“And you trust in the Harmonies?”

“Not totally.” Alya smiles. “Best you gather your belongings. I have a carriage.” After a pause, she adds, “Do not forget the rose. You may need it.” She turns.

Alcaren glances from the departing Matriarch to the rose, frowning, then slips the lumand into its boiled leather case. After a long moment, he lifts the rose.

The day before, snow had blown out of the west, in sheets thrown almost horizontally by a wind so fierce and cold that Secca's back had been numb for deks. The sky had been clear that morning, with no sign of a storm, not even a
wind, when the column had begun the ride through the Sand Pass to reach the eastern side of the Ostfels—and Ebra.

They had found some shelter in a waystation, and waited out the storm through the night.

Now, on the morrow, as they rode eastward toward Ebra, the sky remained gray, although the snow had stopped, and the wind had died away. Secca glanced over her shoulder, but the bulk of the Ostfels and the eastern end of the Sand Pass lay shrouded in clouds, perhaps five deks behind the end of the column of riders. On the left side of the narrow road—half the width of that in Defalk, but still paved—were grasslands, seemingly like those around Mencha, if covered with a thin layer of the heavy snow.

By contrast, perhaps five deks to the south lay a long beige ridge of sand untouched by the snow—the westernmost part of the Sand Hills. The air above the dunes was filled with a shifting fog from the snow that had fallen and immediately melted.

As she studied the Sand Hills, Secca shivered inside her leather riding jacket. Supposedly, more than a generation before, the sand had blocked both ends of the Sand Pass, so much so that it had spilled out of the pass above the Sand Pass fort, and isolated Ebra from Defalk. The sand had remained until the dark Evult had shifted the dunes so that he could move his Dark Monks into Defalk and begin his conquest of the rest of Liedwahr. Then Anna had arrived, and everything had changed.

Secca frowned. Someday, would the sands shift again? There were stories about how the Sand Hills had been created by ancient Spell-Fire Wars between Ranuak and the vanished Mynyan lords, but legends only—not one word in any book she had ever seen.

She dropped back to ride beside Palian and Delvor. “How are the players doing?”

“Since none have embarked on such before, save the two of us,” Palian said with a crooked smile, “they still listen when we say that they are fortunate.”

“They do not believe us,” Delvor added, “but they listen.”

The three laughed.

“Was it this bad with Lady Anna?” Secca asked.

The two exchanged glances. Finally, Palian spoke. “It was far worse in Dumar, for the rain never seemed to stop from the time we entered the land until we passed the Falche. In Ebra…the weather was better.”

“But not the battles,” offered Delvor. “Bertmynn had thunder-drums, and the sorceress knew it not. We lost many in the first encounter, and I thought I would not walk again, so exhausted was I.”

Secca nodded somberly. That was a side she had not heard…or perhaps not listened to when it had been told. “We have spells for thunder-drums, and for other possibilities.”

“It will be different when you go into battle, lady. Let what you have learned sing for you,” said Palian, not unkindly.

Left unspoken was the reminder that Anna had been older and wiser, and fought battles in two worlds.

After a nod to the two players, Secca urged the gray mare forward, past Richina and up beside Wilten. “How are the men doing?

“Cold and wet, and muttering under their breath, as have lancers ever.” Wilten also offered an off-center smile. “This was an early storm. It passed quickly, and they will forget.”

“I used the glass to check the road, and there are no lancers or armsmen ahead.” Secca paused. “The stone paving ends only a few deks ahead. The road does not look muddy, but…”

“After four companies of lancers pass, it will become so, and doubtless the local peasants will call down dissonance upon us.”

“So long as none use sorcery, we'll be fine.”

“Aye…”

Secca's eyes drifted to the left, at the fog-veiled Sand Hills, then back to the road ahead, the long road to Synek and beyond.

By midday two mornings later, Secca and her force had traveled far enough east that only the top of the road was damp, the clay only slightly slippery, so quickly had the late fall storm swept out of the Ostfels and then dissipated. The sky remained slightly hazy, and the sun offered little warmth. A thin layer of slushy snow covered any area where there was grass or low vegetation, but the spots of bare ground and the tree limbs were barely damp.

Richina rode on Secca's left, the side closest to the River Syne, a thin line of blue water between and below the low hills. The hills were covered mostly with snow-dusted brown grass. Smaller woodlots were dotted across the hills, generally close to the cots that appeared scattered almost randomly.

“What is Lord High Counselor Hadrenn like?” asked Richina.

“I have never met Lord Hadrenn. I have seen his image in the reflecting pond, but he preferred to deal with either Lady Anna or Lord Robero. He is said to be well-mannered and would like to do the best he can for Ebra. His arms commander is named Stepan, and Lady Anna said Stepan was most capable.” Secca smiled. “He was once a most handsome man, Stepan was.”

“How did you know him?”

“He is from Synek, but when the Evult conquered that land, Stepan fled to Defalk and served my father. After my father's illness, and when Hadrenn reclaimed his patrimony, Stepan and Gestatr returned to Synek.”

“You know him well, then.”

“I was but eight the last time I saw him,” Secca said with a laugh. “Doubtless he remembers me as but a child.”

“It sounds like Stepan is the reason Hadrenn has remained Lord High Counselor,” ventured Richina.

“I have had surmises along those lines,” admitted Secca, “but we shall see.” Not that they had much time to see, she feared, since her use of the glass that morning had shown that Mynntar was almost at the end of the road bordering the River Dol and within twenty or thirty deks of the River Syne road that led westward to Synek.

When the riders reached the next hill crest on the slippery clay of the road, Secca could not help but smile at what she saw—a stone bridge with a level roadbed supported by a graceful arch that spanned the narrow River Syne, with a style that could only have been created by the sorcery of a single individual.

Richina glanced from the bridge to Secca, and then back to the bridge, before asking, “Did you know of this?”

“No. She must have done it in the early years, when I was still in Defalk. I can see why she did.” Just how many other bridges, buildings, and accomplishments would Secca find in the years and deks before her? And how long before the emptiness within her healed?

“So that any forces she had to send would have an easy crossing?”

Secca nodded. “There won't be others to the east of here, I don't think. They could be used by anyone opposing Hadrenn.”

Both glanced up at the sound of hoofs coming over the low rise on the road ahead. One of the lancers who had earlier been sent out as a scout rode back toward the column. With him was another rider, wearing a dark green sash over his riding jacket, and a shoulder harness for a blade far longer than the sabres used by Secca's lancers.

As Secca stood in the stirrups, she could see a half-score of riders farther back along the muddy road.

“Welcome!” called the Ebran lancer. “Sorceress-Protector, Lord Hadrenn bids you welcome.”

“Our thanks to you and to Lord Hadrenn!” Secca called back.

Half-bowing in the saddle, the young brown-haired lancer pointed toward the bridge. “Lord Hadrenn's hold lies beyond the great bridge, and to the north.”

“You may lead on,” suggested Wilten. “The way has been damp, and we would welcome a dry holding.”

“Dry and welcome you shall be,” called the young lancer, grinning mostly at Richina.

As Hadrenn's lancer turned his mount, Secca glanced at her apprentice. “He was looking at you.”

Even from more than a yard away, Secca could see Richina flush.

“Enjoy it. Just don't take it too seriously.” Secca looked over her shoulder at the oiled case that held her lutar, then at Palian.

“We will be ready, lady,” answered the chief player.

Behind the second players, Elfens stood in his stirrups and grinned at Secca. Secca grinned back at the irrepressible and cheerful head archer, then turned her attention back to the front of the column where the Ebrans rode. None slowed as they neared the stone-paved causeway leading to the bridge.

Once beyond the bridge, the road began to climb gently and followed the riverbank, more westward than north. Below, along the river, was a thick growth of bushes and trees, a few still bearing traces of tattered yellow leaves.

A good glass passed before Secca finally saw Synek to the northwest. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the town. From the dwellings on the river and from those on the hills above, Secca judged it to be perhaps a third the size of Falcor, and yet older, with no new structures that she could discern.

“We near Lord Hadrenn's hold!” called one of the Ebran lancers.

Secca looked from the town to the right, past a small orchard. The hold for the Lord High Counselor of Ebra sat on a gentle rise, surrounded by a low wall constructed of ancient yellow bricks, no more than two yards high. An iron gate was set in the middle of the wall, and the lane running from the hold to the gate stretched almost a dek, Secca judged. The structure itself seemed to have been built at two different times, with the left side, of tan stone and yellow brick, seeming far older than the
more smoothly dressed marble of the right side. Even so, the entire structure seemed only slighter larger than Loiseau. Out from the hold—more of a hulking mansion than a liedburg—stood a double handful of outbuildings of assorted sizes, some built of yellow bricks, some of a tan sandstone, and several of brick and wood.

As Secca and her escort neared the gate, a full company of Ebran lancers rode down the cobblestoned lane from the hold, splitting into two lines and turning their mounts to present an honor guard to Secca and her lancers.

A fanfare from a single trumpet echoed across the afternoon. The Ebran lancers held ranks until all of the Defalkan lancers had passed, then swung in behind the last of the column.

Secca, Wilten, and Richina reined up in the paved courtyard at the rear of the main structure.

The man who stood on the balcony above the rear courtyard was blocky, bald, and beamed down at Secca from above a large paunch. A purple scar ran from the side of his nose to below his right ear. Secca recognized Hadrenn from her efforts at scrying him.

“We welcome you, Sorceress-Protector of the East.”

“We bring greetings and aid from Lord Robero of Defalk,” Secca replied.

“His and your greetings are even more welcome than your assistance, although we are grateful for both.” Hadrenn gestured toward the entrance below him. “Once you have taken care of your mounts, I would meet you below.”

“We will be most pleased.” Secca offered a smile she hoped was warm enough.