The Shadow Sorceress (22 page)

The tall and muscular woman who steps into the Matriarch's formal receiving room wears the hooded cloak of black that shadows her face, as with all the Ladies of the Shadows, and the black trousers and calf-length boots. Despite the winter gloom and the cloak, her dark brown hair and clean hard jaw betray that she is neither in first youth nor old, and that she is a different lady from the last who had visited Alya.

“You wished me to see you?” The Matriarch's voice is pleasant, but not warm, as she looks down from the blue crystalline chair on the dais.

“We did. We offered a warning before, and you have chosen to ignore it.”

“I took your warning, and I did not ignore it. I have not used sorcery, save for information. There is nothing against what you believe in dispatching lancers to support Elahwa.”

“We are deeply concerned that you have sent…that you have sent a…” The brown-haired woman shakes her head as if she cannot bring herself to utter the next word. “…a sorcerer to Elahwa.”

“He is not a sorcerer, not like those you have in mind. He was trained in sorcery, as well you know, so that he would not
misuse those talents.” Alya offers a scornful snort. “What would you have me do? Murder every child who shows the ability to truly sing? Or lock them away in a prison?”

“You could have sent the SouthWomen without him. There are other overcaptains.”

“Who would you have had me send? There are no others of ability that Elahwa could spare, not that either the Free City or the SouthWomen would accept as overcaptain.”

“Those who receive aid should not be that choosy, Matriarch.”

Alya's lips tighten, and for a moment she is silent. Then she takes a slow breath and smiles, almost lazily. “As I understand your words, and those of the lady who came earlier, you feel so strongly about what you believe that you would risk the destruction of Ranuak and the sacrifice of all those who died in the Spell-Fire Wars to hold to your beliefs. Yet you think that the FreeWomen should relinquish their beliefs for two companies of lancers?”

It is the turn of the Lady of the Shadows to be silent for a time. Finally, she replies. “It is not the same.”

“It is the same,” Alya replies, adding more gently, “Besides, the overcaptain does not know battle sorcery. He has never been trained in such, and there are no players to support him.”

“He is a sorcerer, and a man.”

“Sorcery is like any other tool,” Alya points out. “It can be used or misused. Without the Great Sorceress of Defalk, we would have the Sturinnese as our neighbors already, if not as our masters.”

“The great sorceress was a woman, and she had suffered. She was older, and she had some idea of the powers of sorcery and what they could do to our world. As she discovered her powers, she used them less, not more. Even as an outlander, she had some understanding and remorse. Your overcaptain is a man, barely more than a child, and no man in this world has ever restrained such powers.”

“What would you have me do? Recall him? Tell the Free City that because you fear the disasters of the past, in which he took no part, they may not have his abilities?”

The Lady of the Shadows shakes her head within the dark cloak. “If, if all is as you say, and if he acts as an overcaptain should, then all will be acceptable…but only because of the respect we have for the office of the Matriarch.”

“You wish Ranuak to fall into the hands of the Sea-Priests?” Alya's voice remains low, almost gentle.

“It will not come to that. The Harmonies will not let that occur, not unless we fail in our duties to restrain the evils of song-sorcery.”

“The Harmonies do not seem to be restraining the evils of the thunder-drums, nor of the Sturinnese song-sorcery. Nor did they restrain the sorceries of the Mynyans.”

“That is because Liedwahr has not rejected its evils,” replied the Lady of the Shadows. “How can the Harmonies protect us when we embrace evils such as song-sorcery?”

Alya nodded politely, although the nod was scarcely of agreement, but of resigned acknowledgment. “We will see.”

“Indeed we will, Matriarch, and we will be watching. We cannot ever accept the dissonance and destruction of song-sorcery. Not ever again.” The woman in the black cloak bowed. “By your leave, Matriarch?”

“By my leave.” Alya nods once more.

The hooded figure bows a last time, turns, and departs.

Looking to her left, toward the closed windows that hold out the wind and the cold winter mist, Alya shakes her head, slowly, sadly.

A lancer rode almost to where Secca stood with Richina as the two sorceresses were adjusting the ties on the tent that they had helped set up on the knoll to the south of the river road. Secca had tucked the green felt hat into her belt, because it kept threatening to blow away, and brushed back a strand of red hair disarranged by her efforts and by the light, but occasionally gusty wind that remained cold, but not quite bitter.

She waited as the lancer inclined his head.

“Lady Secca, Overcaptain Wilten sent me to tell you that young Lord Haddev is nearing. He is less than a dek away.”

“Thank you, Duryl. We will await him here.”

The lancer nodded and turned his mount back toward the road.

“So Hadrenn did send him,” mused Secca, retying one of the tent's tie-strips.

“I wonder what he looks like,” added Richina.

Secca glanced at the younger sorceress. “I doubt you'd be happy in Synek, especially with your powers to do sorcery greatly diminished. And they would be, with the need to produce heirs quickly.”

Richina flushed.

“Sometimes, love does triumph. But usually, it's lust, and that's a defeat for most women.”

“Most?” Richina raised her eyebrows. “Were you thinking of someone in particular, lady?”

“Not necessarily,” evaded Secca, since she had been thinking of Jolyn, who seemed, from Secca's vantage point, to use men as some men used women.

“Do you think a sorceress can ever truly love, lady?” ventured Richina.

“Lady Anna did.”

“But Lady Clayre hasn't, has she?”

“I don't know,” Secca confessed. “Clayre and I are friendly, but…she came to Falcor when I was barely nine. She was more than six years older and trying to avoid being consorted to anyone who was available. By the time I was just a few years older than you are, Lady Anna brought me to Loiseau. Clayre and I have spent more than ten years apart from each other except for a few weeks a year, and we have seldom talked about such matters.”

“Oh…”

Secca smiled faintly. “Very few lords anywhere—or their heirs—wish a consorting with a woman more powerful than they.”

“But there aren't any sorcerers left in Defalk—not since Lord Brill died.”

“There is one in Neserea.”

“Is that why Lady Clayre…?”

“No.” Secca shook her head. “Lord Belmar is not her friend. I fear he is in league with the Sea-Priests. At best, he wishes to use sorcery to become the Lord High Counselor of Neserea.”

“Or the Prophet of Music?” asked the sandy-haired young sorceress.

“That is possible.”

After a slow nod, Richina slipped into the tent—to brush her hair and make herself more presentable, Secca suspected.

Rather than worry about that, Secca rummaged through her provisions bag and finished off the last chunk of stale bread and some white cheese that was getting soft. Swallowing it took several healthy swigs of water from her bottle.

Before long a column appeared on the road to the west, consisting of perhaps a company's worth of lancers—not in the green of Ebra, but in mottled black tunics. At the head rode Stepan, along with a younger, clean-shaven man. The column turned off the road and halted, and Stepan and Haddev rode slowly past the tethered mounts toward the single tent that was Secca's.

Haddev was taller than his father, and had a full head of reddish-brown hair. His smile was warm and friendly as he reined up and dismounted simultaneously with Stepan.

“Haddev,” Stepan said warmly, “this is the Lady Secca. She holds both the lands of Mencha, as her right as Sorceress-Protector of the East, and those of Synope, as her birthright.”

The tall young heir bowed deeply and directly to Secca, then again, not quite so deferentially, to Richina. The smile as he rose was definitely for Richina.

In a way, that both reassured and troubled Secca.

Haddev returned his gaze almost immediately to Secca. “My grateful thanks, and those of my sire, for your efforts to protect Ebra, gracious lady and sorceress.” He paused. “Lady Sorceress, I joined you as soon as I was able. I also brought another company of lancers, although they are from Silberfels…a token from my uncle.”

“We welcome your presence, and the lancers. They are certainly more than a token, and I owe great thanks to Lord Selber.” Secca also wondered why, after years of reticence, and almost isolation, one of the Lords of Silberfels was actually providing lancers. Was Selber that worried about the Sturinnese?

“I had hoped to reach you before you dealt with the rebels at Dolov, and it appears that I have.”

“You will have time for that,” Secca said easily. “How was your journey?”

“Cold but clear. There was a light snow through the Sand Pass, and much snow on the road until we were well into Ebra.” Haddev paused as if Secca's words had struck belatedly. “You do not intend to deal with the rebels?”

“We have another more pressing problem that will not wait,” Secca replied. “The Sturinnese are about to take Elahwa. They have close to ten companies in Dolov. If we ride to Dolov first, we could be caught between two Sturinnese forces. If we attack those besieging Elahwa, we have the support of the Free City.”

Surprisingly, at least to Secca, Haddev nodded. “They take some of the casualties, and you obtain support and gratitude and risk less of your and our lancers.”

“That is the plan.”

Haddev's eyes strayed to Richina once more, and he offered another warm smile as the eyes of the younger sorceress met his. Abruptly, he replied to Secca. “I will do what I can to aid you, for the sorceresses of Defalk have always been friends to Synek.”

“Indeed they have,” offered Stepan, stepping up beside the heir. “Now…perhaps we should see to your lancers, for you have had a long and a hard ride, and tomorrow will not be easy either.”

“That is most true.” Haddev offered his warm smile to Secca and bowed once more. “Until later, Lady Secca.”

“Until later, Haddev.” Secca returned his smile with one of her own.

The two sorceresses watched as the tall young man remounted and rode with Stepan back toward the waiting lancers of Silberfels.

“He is most charming,” said Richina.

“Charming…yes, he is. And he is far brighter than his sire, and most able to wield any tool to his own ends.” Secca's voice was dry.

“You do not like him, lady?”

“I like him very well. He will be a good lord of Synek and a good Lord High Counselor of Ebra.”
He just won't be very good for you
, Secca wanted to add. She did not, knowing that the younger woman would scarce listen, not with the glow in her eyes.

“You did not seem totally pleased.”

“I'm thinking about tomorrow…and what lies before us,” Secca replied. After a moment, she added, “You will need to help with the scrying. We will need some rough maps of where the Sturinnese forces are.”

“Yes, lady.”

Richina smiled, but her eyes flicked toward the road, and Haddev.

Secca repressed a sigh. At least, when she had been young, and in love with love, Robero's faults had been so obvious that she had not been tempted.

Two men sit on opposite sides of a square table set in the bay window of a large study. The window overlooks a small walled garden. The table is inlaid and contains a set of game pieces. One set is gold, and each figure is smoothly curved. The other set is black, and each figure has sharp and jagged edges.

Belmar takes a sip of the amber-tinged white wine. “A very good vintage, Svenmar. From your lands?”

“The hills to the west.”

The dark-haired visiting lord looks down at the inlaid game board and the pieces upon it. “That is an old set. You don't see the gold and black onyx these days.”

“It has been in the family for too long to trace.”

“Old families…they're important in Neserea, even these days. Old families and lineage.” Belmar takes a second sip of the wine. “Good vintage.” He holds the crystal goblet almost carelessly. “You're a distant nephew of Lord Behlem, aren't you…or some such, anyway?”

“You only ask the question to raise the point that your lineage is the more direct, I would wager.” Humor tinges Svenmar's voice. “What did you have in mind? If I may ask?”

“These really are beautiful pieces.” Belmar picks up the black sorcerer and studies the lined face, carved centuries ago, before setting it back on the inlaid wooden table. “What do I have in mind?”

Svenmar nods politely, then sips from his own goblet, his eyes
not meeting those of Belmar, though not seeming to avoid the younger man's.

“Lord Rabyn disgraced the proud heritage of Neserea, would you not agree?” Belmar's voice is warm, yet almost indolent.

“He thought he fought to hold his patrimony.” Svenmar's tone is cautious.

Belmar laughs, almost a deep guffaw, humorous and sardonic.

Svenmar's eyebrows lift.

“To this day, peasant mothers tell comely daughters that the shade of Rabyn will come for them if they raise their eyes too high,” Belmar says smoothly. “In less than a year, more than a score of beautiful but poor girls were sold into his service, and most vanished into unmarked graves, and Rabyn scattered golds to their families.” He shrugs. “Pleasures are one thing, but open contempt purchased with golds is neither wise nor seemly.”

“That was more than a score of years ago, Belmar.”

“Ah…yes…I can see that my words follow a well-worn track, one you have pondered so long it is most familiar, so familiar that…but I digress…”

“Usually…you are more direct, my friend. You must have had a long journey.”

“It is never a long journey when those who support you are at its end.” Belmar lifts the goblet once more and seems to take another swallow, a swallow that is barely a sip.

“All too true.” Svenmar waits.

Belmar sits more erect, not suddenly, but gracefully. Yet the change is as if a dog had become a wolf, yet without changing its coat or markings. “You have seen the tall man in gray, have you not?”

“The one who seems like a shadow?”

“He is a Sea-Priest.”

“You talk of Rabyn's evils.” Svenmar shakes his head. “The Sea-Priests have not the good of Neserea at heart, if hearts they have at all.”

“They do not have our good at heart. With that I agree. But their enemy is Defalk, and the sorceresses who command its lord from the shadows. And…well…one must use the tools at
hand. One must also learn from the past.” Belmar smiles again. “I have not made the mistakes that did…say, the Lord of Dumar. Master jerGlien is the sole Sturinnese ever to set foot in my holding, or anywhere in Neserea at my beck. All my lancers…did you know that I now have fifteen companies?” The dark-haired lord pauses.

“No. I cannot say that I am surprised.”

“Ah…you are perceptive. You would not be. As I was saying, all fifteen are solid Nesereans. No mercenaries. No Sturinnese. And they have been trained by the best, not for a season or so, but at least a year, and for the finest, almost five. I did not bring my archers, for this is a friendly visit, nor all of my players, nor my small corps of thunder-drums…Oh…I do have trouble following a single thought.” Belmar smiles broadly. “But then, I have thought long and hard for many years about what may transpire if, perchance, young Annayal were to follow the example of Ranuak.”

“Why don't you suggest that you would make a most desirable consort?” Svenmar smiles. “You are not ill-favored, nor illlanded. Or do you worry that the Lady Aerlya did not hesitate to call in the demon sorceress against Hureln?”

“You call her lady?”

“Unlike the sorceresses you dislike, she does come from a long and noble line and has not usurped lands rightfully belonging to a brother or uncle.”

“As do you,” Belmar points out.

“Almost as long and distinguished as yours, Belmar.”

“Distinction must be, alas, often supplemented.” Belmar again picks up a figure from the board—this time the gold sorceress. He smiles, if faintly.

“Supplemented? A rather odd word, my friend.”

“If a noble holder such as you were to offer a suggestion that consorting were to find favor with the noble holders of the south…”

“Ah…and what of Chyalar?”

Belmar shrugs. “He has no sorcerous abilities, and his sire is ailing. With but three companies of lancers…Even you have more than he.”

“Come now.” Svenmar laughs. “You cannot bring arms to bear against us all.”

“I would not do that to you, my friend.” Belmar sets the sorceress back on the board. “Of course, if a certain letter were made public, about closing the wagon road to Sperea…but that was years back. And some other scrolls, perchance…” There is the briefest of pauses before he asks, “How is your dear consort Twyla?”

“Perhaps a letter might be just as well in these troubled times.” Svenmar forces a smile. “And the lancers of Worlan might be able to spend far more time, say, near Itzel?”

“They might indeed.” Belmar smiles and lifts the goblet. “This is indeed a remarkable vintage.”

“I am glad you find it so.” Svenmar lifts his own goblet and touches its rim to his lips, but does not drink.