The Shadow Sorceress (7 page)

As she stepped into the large workroom, Secca glanced at the harp beside the reflecting pool, noting absently that the mute bars had not been applied. “You're the one who didn't apply them.” She had been the last to use the pool, since Richina did not yet use it without Secca's supervision.

While it would have taken a powerful sorcerer or sorceress to overhear her in Anna's workroom—hers, now, Secca realized sadly—it was possible. She turned toward the harp, but before she could fasten the muting bars in place, the bell on the top of the harp rang—twice. Clayre, rather than Jolyn.

Secca picked up the lutar, turned to the reflecting pool, and strummed the receiving song.

The clear water silvered over, then the image of a dark-haired woman with hazel-green eyes appeared. “How are you doing?” asked the image, although the words vibrated from the harp strings rather than coming from the image in the pool.

“It's hard,” Secca admitted. “I haven't been sleeping that well. There's been more to do than I'd thought, and it's hard to keep my mind on it.”

“She was more like your mother.”

“She is…was…my mother. You know that. I was always an inconvenience to Anientta.”

“I understand that.”

Secca nodded in acknowledgment. Clayre's mother had died at Clayre's birth, and Clayre had never seen eye to eye with her stepmother. “How is Birke?”

“Doing well. He always sends scrolls.” Clayre laughed. “He'll feel guilty to the end of his days, and that will be good for him.”

“At least he feels guilty.”

“Have you heard anything from Wasle?” asked Clayre.

“Richina hasn't said anything; there haven't been any scrolls from Suhl.”

“He never was much for writing.” Clayre paused.

Secca waited.

“There's more bad news,” Clayre said slowly. “From the west.”

“On top of Konsstin's death?”

“This is worse. Konsstin had been ailing for years. Kestrin has been acting as Liedfuhr for the past year, even if most people didn't know it.”

“What is it?” Secca couldn't say she was surprised. Anna had been such a force that people were bound to react upon learning of her death, especially combined with the death of the old Liedfuhr of Mansuur.

“Hanfor died. Some sort of bloody flux. Jolyn's convinced it was poison…assassins. I'd believe it. Robero
says
it's just an unfortunate occurrence. What he thinks…who knows?”

“Who?”

“The most likely suspect is someone named Belmar. No one
knows much about him, except that he's a Neserean holder from an old family. He claims descent from the Prophet, and he's got an ancient castle overlooking a place on the Bitter Sea called Worlan. We can't catch him at it, but the Harmonies are disrupted around him, and he has more armsmen than his holding and lands could support for long. All the pools show is a good-looking young man with a charming smile. Until two years ago, no one had ever heard of him. He was making eyes at Annayal, but never enough for Hanfor to reject him outright. But he's sharp enough to have gotten the message.”

“And sent one of his own?” asked Secca.

“I'm not sure. There are several others with reasons of their own. Another holder named Svenmar. Besides Belmar, he's the closest relative of the last prophet, a cousin of some sort. And then there's Chyalar, the son of the holder of Itzel.”

“But this Belmar is special? I suppose he has black hair.” Secca smiled. “And deep blue eyes.”

“What else?” Clayre laughed. “But I wouldn't trust him anywhere near my chamber. Nor would Jolyn.”

“They didn't wait long.” Secca took a long breath.

“There's more.”

“Oh?” Secca could feel her stomach tightening.

“Lord Robero has a scroll from Lord High Counselor Clehar. He's asking for a consort—one who can protect Dumar. Lady Ryvyn died two seasons ago.”

“You?” asked Secca. “Doesn't he know about sorceresses?”

“He has three sons and a daughter. His brothers have sons. He's requested a consortship that will not require…” Clayre snorted.

“He's just doing that to get Robero to reduce Dumar's liedgeld. Crying poverty, and claiming that he won't be as well protected now that Anna's gone.”

“As if we haven't been…”

Secca raised a finger to her lips.

“I know. I still don't think the seers of Wei are that good.”

“They probably aren't, but we still don't know that much about the Sea-Priests.”

“You think they're involved?”

“They've been quiet for a long time,” Secca pointed out. “Anna destroyed their forces everywhere in Liedwahr. But just before…you said they had massed fleets in the Ostisles. Do you think…”

“Who knows? They kept their secrets well.”

“She stopped them…but only in Liedwahr. I know you do not like to leave Loiseau…” Clayre ventured, her voice humming as translated by the harp.

“You're telling me I should visit our Lord of Defalk.”

“He does listen to you.” Clayre paused. “He doesn't like it, but he does.”

“He's never liked it, not since I told him he was a bully when he was fourteen.”

“You did?”

Secca let the question pass. “I'm not comfortable…burying Anna, and then just leaving. But…too many things could happen if I don't.”

“It has to be your decision.” Clayre's words were slow and measured.

“I'll leave in the morning.”

“Who will you bring?”

“A company of lancers, the players, and Richina.”

“Is that wise?”

“She's seventeen and old enough to travel with me, and she needs to see Falcor again.”

“And what it is?”

“What it is not,” Secca added dryly. “I won't bring the junior fosterlings. Kerisel and Jeagyn are too likely to be awed by Falcor.”

“And Richina won't be?”

“That one is wise beyond her years. Perhaps too wise.”

“I'll let Robero know you're coming. That way, he won't be as likely to do something rash.”

“We'll see.” As she let the image in the pool fade, Secca wasn't sure she had Clayre's faith in her own influence over the Lord of Defalk, and much as she had appreciated Robero's concerns about her happiness, the business with Lythner still nagged at her.

Before she stepped over to the desk and the bookcases that surrounded it, with the notebooks Anna had written and dictated to Secca over the years—notes on music, spells, and what Anna had called relevant science—Secca did remember to replace the muting bars on the harp.

“How much longer?” Belmar glances through the heavily glazed windows of the bluff-top castle toward the gray and cold waters of the small harbor below, then at the figure who sits languidly in the dark wooden armchair next to the side table. “The winds that bring winter strengthen with each day.”

“Tomorrow or the next day, I would guess. No longer than the day after,” answers the man in nondescript traveler's gray. “No master would delay in these waters longer than necessary.” He gestures toward the Bitter Sea.

“Especially not a Sturinnese master, even if he is claiming to be Pelaran,” replies the dark-haired holder. “You are sure the deed is done, master jerGlien?”

“The Lord High Counselor is already dead.” The man in gray smiles. “And soon Neserea will need a skilled and strong leader to repulse the adventuresome Liedfuhr, who would annex Neserea under the guise of protecting his sister.”

“What the father tried…would not the son?” Belmar laughed. “The scrolls are ready to dispatch as well—once we act in preserving Neserea.”

“Are your players ready?” JerGlien's eyebrows lift as he
straightens in the chair and takes a small sip from the goblet on the side table.

“They've been ready for a season. Each week, they add another spell. Soon we will have enough for any condition we might encounter in battle in Neserea.”

“One must still have armsmen.”

“We already have five score fully trained. The sorceress conquered Dumar with less than that.”

“She could risk them all, for she could call upon the levies of Jecks and Birfels,” counters the gray-clad man.

“And I cannot?” half-queries Belmar.

“No. You cannot. You must be seen as both strong and cautious. No one wishes a firebrand. The memories of the previous prophets are still too rancid.”

“Those memories will work to my aid, especially in a Neserea with no real heir, and one where many of the more venerable holders would like the old customs back.”

“I cannot say I understand the customs of Liedwahr. The eldest daughter of the Lord High Counselor has no consort, yet the second eldest—what might be her name—she is already consorted to that youngster in Dumar.”

“You are right. Annayal has no consort. The problem is that there is no one suitable, or none the Lord High Counselor found suitable. Aerfor was consorted to Eryhal early in the fall, a love match, but that was permitted because no one would accept a younger daughter as Lady High Counselor of Neserea.”

“Perhaps you should offer a suit to Annayal,” suggests jerGlien. “She is pretty, if not ravishingly attractive, and you are a holder of note.”

“I have made my appearances, and that was enough for the time.” Belmar smiles. “I cannot act, not until others suggest such is appropriate. In the meantime, we need to proceed as we have planned.”

Without replying, jerGlien takes another sip from the goblet.

The rear courtyard at Loiseau was still gray in the glass before dawn when Secca strapped her gear in place, making sure that the grand lutar was securely fastened behind the saddle, balanced by the traveling scrying glass. She glanced to the sky, frowning momentarily as she caught the tiny red disk of light that was Darksong, the moon of misused sorcery and evil. Then, pushing any thought of omens out of her mind, she took the reins of the gray mare from the head ostler. Unlike Anna, she did not ride one of the enormous raider beasts—and had no desire to do so. Her words to the ostler caught in her throat as she realized that she would never see Anna on a raider beast again. She swallowed, and said, “Thank you, Vyren.”

“My pleasure, Lady Secca.”

Secca checked her gear a last time before she swung up into the saddle. Behind her, Richina had already mounted a larger chestnut gelding.

Palian, chief player of Anna's—now Secca's—players, eased her dapple toward the sorceress. “The first players are ready, Lady Secca.” The gray eyes almost matched the swatches of gray hair amid the black.

“Thank you. Have you seen Delvor?”

“He and the second players are over by the side entrance to the stables,” replied the graying chief player. Palian—who had taught Secca all her instruments—offered a wry smile.

“He's thought up another harmonic variation?” Secca repressed a sigh.

“A new fingering scheme, I believe.”

Secca nodded, ignoring the barely concealed snort from Richina, and eased the gray mare toward the back of the courtyard. After passing the lancers, she slowed as she came by the special archers. “Is everyone ready, Elfens?”

“Yes, lady. Perhaps we can bring down some of those big pheasants in the flats.”

“Only while in our lands,” Secca reminded the chief archer.

“Lady Herene's pheasants are for her archers.”

Elfens grinned. “But, of course.”

“You're a rogue, chief archer.”

“One loyal to Loiseau and to you, lady.”

Secca shook her head with a quick smile and eased toward the stable where Delvor stood on the paving stones beside his mount, a lutar in his hand. “If you finger like so—”

“Chief Player Delvor!” Secca called cheerily.

The lank-haired Delvor glanced up from where the lutarists had gathered around him. “Lady! We are ready. I was just showing the lutarists—”

Secca barely held in a grin. “I appreciate your diligence. Perhaps you can show them later. We do have a long ride before us.”

“Ah…yes, lady.” He bowed.

Secca turned her mount back in the direction of the front courtyard, and the gates where the lancers of the purple company of Mencha were already mounted in formation.

The painfully thin captain with an equally thin black mustache eased his mount around to wait for the redheaded sorceress. When she reined up, he inclined his head. “The purple company is ready, lady,”

“How is Filcar, Quebar?”

“Well enough to ride, and use a blade.” Quebar smiled. “He will not be so careless in drills again, lady.”

“I would hope not.”

“Vyren, he said it best. Some horses have to step into deep water before they would swim.”

“And what is he saying that you said?” Secca laughed. Vyren and Quebar were cousins, and each was always attributing some odd saying to the other.

Quebar offered an overelaborate shrug. “Perhaps that the only danger a dull blade bears is to its wielder.”

Or a dull mind. Secca hoped hers remained sharp, both on the journey and once she arrived in Falcor.

In the dull gray morning, a light wind whispers from the northwest, across the cold waters of Bitter Sea. The wind is strong enough to have carried the merchant vessel bearing no ensign to the long pier, but not powerful enough to hamper a speedy docking. The customs' enumerator waddles up the gangway, then vanishes into the master's cabin.

From the flat roof of the baker's, across the square from the warehouse, Belmar watches. Behind him, the four players wait, occasionally blowing on their fingers. The two violino players check the tuning on their instruments, while the woodwind player moistens his reed.

Shortly, maroon-clad troops march down the gangway and south to make their way shoreward along the pier.

“It won't be long now,” cautions Belmar. “Stand ready.”

The players take up their instruments. Belmar watches the far side of the square, and the narrow street beyond where the maroon-clad troops march quickly toward the warehouse.

Although the lancers have drawn their blades, they move toward the warehouse door quickly, as though they expect little opposition.

One of the pair of guards by the iron-gated door sees the
oncoming lancers, turns, and sprints down the narrow street away from the oncoming company. The second just stares.

Belmar gestures toward the four players. “Now!”

With the notes of the players comes Belmar's bass voice.

The Mansuuran captain barely has time to yell, “Treachery!” before his own sabre slashes through his neck.

“But, of course,” murmurs the dark-haired sorcerer after he completes the spell.

Other blades perform improbable actions upon those who bore them, so swiftly that but few curses or cries echo across the square. The body of the single remaining warehouse guard also lies before the iron gate, his neck slashed by his own blade as well.

Belmar looks at the figures sprawled on the cobblestones before the warehouse doors, then at the gray-clad figure who has appeared from the shadows of the staircase from the side street below. “That should do. Now we should inform his Mightiness Lord High Counselor Hanfor. We know nothing of events in Neserea, of course. We are but loyal subjects, protecting our coast from Mansuuran depredations.”

“Of course,” echoes jerGlien quietly.

Belmar turns to the players, and the half-score guards behind them. “You may go back to the hold.”

The head player nods. The players slip instruments into cases covered with oiled leather, then file down the narrow steps, followed by all but a pair of the guards in dark green tunics.

Once the roof is clear, except for Belmar's personal guards, the sorcerer steps to the edge of the roof and turns to jerGlien. “And the golds?”

“The ship's master keeps half, remember?”

“I remember, and you retain a third of the other half.”

JerGlien smiles modestly.

“It's not a bad investment. Sturinn gets back two-thirds of the cost of bribing the Mansuurans; we kill an entire company,
which reduces the forces facing the Maitre, and everyone thinks that either Kestrin is bent on conquest or can't control his own land.” Belmar smiles.

JerGlien provides a noncommittal shrug.

“I am sure that is the idea, or something close to it, if not more ingenious.” Belmar's voice carries more than a trace of amusement. “However, you did promise.”

“I did, and we do keep our promises. You will recall the small matter of scrolls.”

“Ah…yes. Tomorrow, they will be dispatched. For the moment, I need to inspect the damage below. I look forward to seeing you then.”

“Until tomorrow.” The man in gray bows, then slips silently to the steps.

With a nod to his guards, Belmar follows the other down to the street, where they proceed in different directions.