The Shadow Sorceress (31 page)

“I beg your pardon.” The Ranuan overcaptain bowed. “I needed to check with my captains.”

“How are your SouthWomen?” Secca motioned for him to sit at the table.

“They are warmer than they would be riding, and have managed to start a cookfire in an old hearth off the barn they have taken.” Alcaren pulled a chair into place, then smiled. “Better than some of the lancers, I would say, though all are under roof.”

Secca immediately felt guilty, but beckoned to the serving girl who stood by the door to the kitchen. “Another stew, please.”

With a bob of her head, the girl vanished.

“I'm curious, overcaptain,” Secca said slowly. “I was most thankful for the brew you sent, yet that is not exactly something a lancer officer would carry.”

“I had forgotten I had it. The guard chiefs of the Matriarch carry two packets of such. Never had I even used one.” Alcaren laughed easily. “Did it ease your discomfort?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Lady Secca, you have ridden hundreds of deks. You are graceful and poised upon a mount, and then you almost cannot ride and stumble dismounting. That could but be if you were…not as you should be.”

“I was not, I admit.” Secca wondered if Alcaren had an answer—and a good one—for everything.

Was that why she felt so uneasy around him? Or because, while he was an overcaptain, he was probably several years younger than Secca, but seemed far more interested in Secca than the younger and more attractive Richina? Or because she couldn't help but feel attracted, and that worried her?

“You are concerned, Lady Secca?”

“I am. I question where the Sea-Priests take their ships. In the morning, when we are rested, then I will see what we can scry.” She shrugged. “Where do you think the ships will go?”

“Encora or Dumar.” Alcaren paused, momentarily worrying his upper lip with white teeth. “Encora, I fear.”

“Why?” asked Secca.

“There is already a fleet that lays siege to the remnants of Narial, if the white lancers have not already taken it. Were that the Sea-Priests' goal, why would they have sent so many lancers to Ebra? Half that number and no ships and no thunder-drums would have been enough to draw you from Defalk, would it not?”

“It was enough,” Secca admitted. “We did not know for sure that the ships were headed to Elahwa or that there were any white lancers in Dolov or with Mynntar's forces. Not when I left Loiseau.”

“Loiseau?” Alcaren looked puzzled.

“The keep in Mencha. It was the Lady Anna's, but she left it to me.”

“Lady Secca is also the lady of Flossbend, and a member of the Thirty-three in her own right,” Richina pointed out.

For a moment, Alcaren was silent, before asking, “Are all sorceresses from the Thirty-three?”

Secca laughed. “Some are, and some are not. I am, and Richina's mother is Lady of Suhl.”

“There are those who are not?” pressed Alcaren.

“Yes, a number of them.”

“You do not name them.” Alcaren's eyes twinkled.

“One is the sorceress Jolyn,” Secca admitted. “The others should name themselves.”

The serving girl returned with a bowl of stew for Alcaren and more bread.

“If we could each have another serving,” Secca said.

The girl bobbed her head again, and took the two empty bowls.

The thin innkeeper appeared, immediately bowing. “All be to your liking, ladies, ser?”

Secca smiled politely. “It is as it should be.”

The man bowed again, and Secca understood. She fumbled in her wallet and brought forth a silver, presenting it to him. “This may help for now.”

“Yes, lady…thank you, lady.” Three more bows followed before he backed out of the room.

“You didn't have to pay him,” Alcaren said.

“No, but I could, and it is less costly now than later.” Far less costly, she thought.

The serving girl returned with two more bowls filled to the brim.

Secca nodded thanks and began to eat, amazed slightly at her hunger for the overpeppered and mushy stew.

“Are there any…ample…sorceresses?” asked Alcaren, almost innocently, except for the persistent twinkling of the gray-blue eyes that seldom left Secca.

“There may be,” mumbled Secca.

“Not from what I have seen.”

“Oh…overcaptain, I fear we are the only sorceresses you have seen, save perhaps the Matriarch.”

Alcaren flushed slightly. Somehow, Secca felt better about that, although she could not have said quite why.

Ashtaar slowly looks from one end of the long dark table to the other, stopping to take in each of the other counselors. The lamps in the sconces on the wall seem to flicker as her eyes pass by each, and the room is hushed.

At last, she speaks. “The Maitre of Sturinn has planned exceedingly well, far better than ever I would have guessed. Dumar lies within his grasp, and before long, the southeast of Liedwahr.”

“The Sorceress-Protector has defeated the Sturinnese in Ebra, and the Sea-Priests failed to take even Elahwa,” observes a young-faced, but balding, man wearing gold-trimmed brown.

Ashtaar's eyes flash. “Two sorceresses are caught in a winter storm south of Dolov. Another is mired in Esaria trying to support the heir to Neserea against a rebellion fomented by the Maitre, and the last full sorceress and her assistant remain in Falcor, for Lord Robero had not wished to leave his liedburg undefended. The Sturinnese fleet has blockaded both Narial and Encora. The Liedfuhr of Mansuur cannot afford to split his forces, even if he dared send them through the Westfels in winter. He will choose to stand by his sister and her daughter, if he must choose. Only the sorceresses can stand against the thunder-drums
and the Sturinnese lancers, and none will reach Dumar this winter.”

Again…there is silence in the council room.

The Council Leader's dark eyes glitter under the silver hair as she looks to the left. “Marshal Zeltaar? How soon could the first and second fleets reach Dumar?”

“The seas around the Winter Coast have already begun to freeze. We will have to sail westward across the Bitter Sea. The winds are less than favorable most days.” The stocky woman with the iron-gray hair and square face shrugs. “It could be done in three weeks, but it might be six. Do you wish us to prepare? If it is to be done, we should leave within the week.”

“Or you may not be able to leave at all?” Covering her mouth with the dark green cloth she carries at all times, Ashtaar coughs, then waits.

“The winter has come hard and early,” concedes the marshal.

“Why should we send ships against Sturinn?” questions a figure in a black cloak, her face shadowed by the black hood.

“I am not proposing such,” Ashtaar replies. “Yet in these times, I do not wish our fleets to be frozen in unseasonable ice. What would prevent them from sweeping in behind the spring melt to catch us unprepared?” Her eyes sweep the table once more.

The marshal nods slowly.

“Also,” Ashtaar continues, “while our ships roam the seas, the Sea-Priests must also take more care in how they deploy their vessels.”

“You aid the Defalkans, then?” The voice from the Lady of the Shadows is almost indolent.

“I aid us, without costing us other than provisions.” Ashtaar shakes her head. “Lady of the Shadows, if you would consider this. If the Sturinnese must leave some vessels to guard their supply lines and their staging ports, then those vessels cannot support the invasion and conquest of Dumar. That weakens the Sea-Priests. If they are weaker, the Dumarans and the sorceresses, if one can reach Dumar—or Encora—can inflict greater damage upon the Sturinnese. The more they weaken the sea-tigers, the
less we will need to face. Would we not be fools not to take steps to weaken our enemies without fighting?” Ashtaar's smile is almost that of a death's head. “And without the use of sorcery?”

“What if they ignore our fleets? Then what?” asks the Lady of the Shadows. “Will you turn your seers into sorceresses? Or offer the sorceresses of Defalk golds to use their fire-spells to repeat the bitter lessons of the Spell-Fire Wars?”

“Then we attack and sack an undefended staging port in the Ostisles—without sorcery.” Ashtaar continues to smile. “Make no mistake. We
will
be the next victim if Dumar and Ranuak fall, for we need the seas to prosper, unlike Defalk and Mansuur, and when the Maitre removes the traders of Ranuak, then he will have even more warships to use against our fleets and traders. Do you wish that? Any of you?”

There are frowns around the table, but none will speak to the Council Leader.

Secca glanced around the corner of the public room of the Copper Pot, a room guarded by her lancers and containing only officers, the two chief players, both sorceresses, and Haddev. A low moaning confirmed that the wind still blew, although the snow had stopped falling before it became more than knee-deep. The scrying mirror lay in the center of a square dark oak table.

The red-haired sorceress picked up the lutar, checked the strings, and began the spell.

The mirror's surface flashed a blank and dull silver before clearing to reveal a line of ships with a coastline in the background. One of the white-hulled vessels was alongside another dark-hulled and smaller ship.

Secca glanced to Alcaren.

“That is south of the west channel passage,” confirmed the Ranuan overcaptain.

With a nod, Secca sang the release spell. She had no desire to hold any image longer than necessary, since she knew she would have to call up at least several more.

The public room remained silent, with everyone looking at her.

“How near are the ships to Encora?” Secca prompted, looking at Alcaren again.

“Southwest of Encora, perhaps twenty deks.” Alcaren frowned. “They have set up a blockade of Encora. They would find it difficult to take the city, or to use their storm magic against it.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Haddev. “That is, if they cannot take the city?”

“It isolates both Dumar and Ranuak,” Secca found herself replying. “The Ostfels and the Sudbergs are impassible in winter. I do not imagine the Westfels are much better. The only way to reach either land is by sea. There are no sorceresses in Dumar now, and all of us are in places where we are blocked by mountains or the ocean.” Secca had to wonder if the unseasonably early and heavy snows were the result of some form of thunder-drum weather magic.

“Do we know for certain that the Sturinnese are winning in Dumar?” asked Wilten. “We have had no messages and no news.”

Someone snorted. Delvor, Secca thought.

Wilten flushed, but kept his eyes upon Secca.

“I can try to see with the glass,” Secca said, lifting the lutar once more.

The scene in the mirror showed a single squad of lancers in white in what appeared to be the square of a small town. Although the image was small, Secca could make out at least two figures in red lying on the muddy ground.

“Small forces…not good,” murmured Wilten.

Secca understood that. If the Sturinnese could send single squads out without hesitation, in at least part of Dumar, the Sturinnese had greater control of the land than did the Dumarans.

After everyone had looked closely, she released the image.

“Can we even return to Mencha now?” asked Richina, slightly too wide-eyed.

Secca managed to swallow a smile, letting her eyes go from Melcar to Wilten, and then to the young Haddev, who had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since Alcaren had joined Secca's force. “I have great doubts, but it might be best to view the Sand Pass, so that all could see.”

Wilten nodded.

Secca cleared her throat, then began the simple scrying melody.

The mirror offered a view of the eastern side of the Sand Pass. Everywhere was snow—snow on the evergreens, snow on the birches, and snow so deep that not a stalk of grass nor a low bush protruded from the covering of white, snow so deep that the road could have been anywhere.

Secca let everyone study the image before singing the release couplet.

“I don't think we're about to return to Mencha by the Sand Pass at any time soon,” Secca said dryly. Already, her impetuous decision to bring down Dolov in a heap of stones was looking worse and worse. At least, had she merely slaughtered the inhabitants, she and her forces could have had a place to winter over while reestablishing some authority across eastern Ebra—something that Hadrenn had been less than effective in doing, it was
becoming all too clear. “And we can do little more in Ebra,” Secca said slowly, looking toward Melcar, then continuing. “As we can, we will travel south to Elahwa. There we will see what there is to be done, either to see if we can arrange passage to Dumar or await some message from Lord Robero. We cannot stay here. The town cannot support us for long.”

The Ebran overcaptain swallowed.

“I did not mean to suggest that your lancers would accompany us,” Secca responded. “You and your lancers have been most helpful, Overcaptain Melcar. Your duties and charges lie within Ebra. You may remain here or return to Synek as and when you see fit.”

“We would not wish to be seen in any fashion less than supportive,” offered Melcar.

“I understand that, and so will Lord Robero,” Secca pointed out. “Doubtless there will be other obligations in the future, and I know that Ebra will respond as it always has.” She smiled, hoping it wasn't too false, then turned her gaze to Haddev. “Your support has also been most helpful, Haddev, but your uncle's lancers should not be traveling so far from Silberfels, and not in what looks to be a cold and long winter. While I cannot command, I would suggest that you have them return to Synek as you can and winter over there. Or…you could use them here to hold Dolov.”

“There is no lord in Dolov,” Haddev offered neutrally.

“That is true. Your father has two sons, has he not?” Secca raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, lady.”

“I cannot command or even recommend, but were both keeps to be held by those friendly to Lord Robero, he might well let matters stand. At the least, he would be well disposed toward you and your sire.”

“There is that,” mused Haddev. “Perhaps I should remain, and ensure that all goes as it should. At least, until he receives my scroll.”

Richina glanced to the tall heir, but Haddev avoided her eyes.

“Melcar, Haddev…once you discuss matters with your
captains, if you would inform me of your plans?” Secca offered another smile. “I will be here, discussing our travel.”

Once the two Ebrans had left, Secca glanced to Alcaren. “You have traveled here. What can we expect?”

“The weather will be better in the south along the coast,” Alcaren replied. “The snow does not stay so long or so deep when one nears Elahwa.”

“Can all the players travel in this weather?” Secca turned to Palian.

“If we have another day or two of rest. Britnay is still fevered and weak, but she is young, and will recover soon. Rowal's lip is healing. He can travel now, but he will have trouble playing.” A crooked smile flickered across the face of the chief player. “I fear we will not soon see Loiseau, will we, lady?”

“I have my doubts,” Secca admitted. “We—and you—may play for all of Liedwahr.” Her eyes went to Delvor.

The chief of second players brushed back lank brown hair and gave a smile even more sardonic than that of Palian. “All my players are tired, but well.”

Secca gestured toward the closed shutters. “You will have at least another day of rest. Perhaps two or three.”

“Is going to Elahwa wise, lady?” asked Wilten.

“I have my doubts, Wilten,” Secca replied, “but we can do little good here, and only create more resentment by remaining. The FreeWomen do have some obligation to us, and should Lord Robero have some charge for us, we need to be where we can carry it out.”

Wilten and Alcaren both nodded, the former dubiously, the latter knowingly.

Even though she had known Alcaren for but a few weeks, Secca almost wished he were the one commanding her lancers, but she knew also that such a feeling needed to be resisted until she knew more about the mysterious overcaptain. Much more.