The Shadow Sorceress (49 page)

An off-key note chimed through the gray skies, followed by the sound of crystal shattering. Secca blinked, staggered, then went to her knees on the hardwood of the deck, one hand thrust out to keep from falling totally on her face.

Alcaren had an arm around Secca, and was helping her to her feet almost immediately. Waves of light and dark washed across her vision, and it took all her effort to stand, even with Alcaren's support. For a time, she just stood on the deck, unseeing.

Alcaren and Richina exchanged words. Secca had no idea what the two had said, but Richina moved away and then disappeared.

Secca tried to make out what was happening around her. Her head was throbbing, and double images flashed before her eyes. Alcaren seemed to be two separate men, one looking at her with kindness and concern, the second leering and sneering simultaneously. She closed her eyes.

“Lady Secca! Drink this. You must.”

Even Richina spoke in two voices, and Secca had to struggle to make out the words. She swallowed whatever Richina tendered, feeling the liquid splash across her cheeks and chin.

Some of the headache began to subside, and the double images of those around her seemed to fade slightly, so that each person carried a silvered shadow, rather than a double of their entire self. She blinked again, her eyes watering in light that seemed far too bright, even though the sky was filled with high gray clouds.

“You need to drink more, my lady,” said Alcaren gently.

His breath and words seemed close enough to caress her neck, and she wanted to lean back into his arms. Instead, she forced herself to take a longer swallow from the mug Richina held.

“Dissonance! Lead frigate swept starboard right into the other one!” The words came from the lookout above, sounding very far away. “Looks like none at the helm, captain.”

Secca shook her head. At least the first spell had worked on one of the Sturinnese vessels.

“Two of em, like as in irons,” reported the lookout after several moments.

After taking a biscuit from Alcaren, who was still pale and
greenish, Secca slowly ate it, interspersing the biscuit with sips of water to get it down her suddenly dry throat. She looked up as a shadow fell across her, squinting to make out the figure of the captain.

“Whatever you did, Lady Secca, there are five, maybe seven, of their vessels unhelmed,” said Denyst. “The others are regrouping and starting to close on us once more.”

“How long?”

“Another half-glass.”

“I'll be ready.” Secca began to eat the second biscuit offered by Alcaren.

“Lady, you cannot do more sorcery. I can use the flame spell against them,” Richina offered. “I can.”

“Not yet.” Stepping slightly away from Alcaren, Secca took another swallow of water, reaching for another biscuit. “I can do one more spell. If that is not enough, then you will have to use the flame spell. Tell Palian to be ready with the first building spell. The first building spell.”

“As you wish, lady.” Richina did not turn toward the players, but remained looking at Secca.

“Let her do the flame spell, my lady,” Alcaren whispered. “She must try herself, and whatever she does will leave less for you.”

Secca opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she spoke. “Richina…perhaps you should try the flame spell on the nearer vessels.”

“Yes, lady.” A trace of a smile flitted across Richina's face, then vanished.

A glance passed between Richina and Alcaren, but Secca ignored it. She would still have to handle the storm spell…somehow. The flame spell wouldn't reach far enough. Nor would the wind spell she had used against the Sturinnese before. And Richina had not the feel for the storm spell.

The Sturinnese recovered quickly. Before long, unless Richina could destroy the Sturinnese ships, both she and Secca would have to fight off the effects of the thunder-drums, as the Sea-Priests neared the
Silberivelle
.

“Chief players!” called Richina. “The short flame spell.”

“Standing ready with the short flame spell.”

Richina watched as the white hulls of the Sturinnese closed. “On your mark, chief player!”

“The short flame spell. Mark!” called Palian.

When the second bar of the accompaniment began, so did Richina's spell.

As the younger sorceress's words finished, a curtain of flame flared southward, wrapping itself around the nearest two vessels, and the bow of a third. In moments, the three were blackened hulks.

Secca's eyes went from Richina, now holding the rail for support, to the remainder of the seemingly endless white-hulled vessels, watching as those untouched by the first two sets of spells, once more turned toward the
Silberwelle
.

Secca nodded to Alcaren, squinting to make the two images she saw of him into one. “Tell Palian I will need the first building spell.”

“Can you do this?” whispered Alcaren, leaning toward Secca.

“I must…All is lost if I cannot.”

Alcaren looked directly at Secca. Even through the silvered, half-double images that were those of but one man, she could see the concern on both his faces. Then he turned and called out loudly, “The Lady Secca will be using the first building spell. The first building spell.”

“We stand ready with the first building spell,” came back Palian's reply.

A flaming quarrel flew toward the
Silberwelle
, falling short, and plunging into the blue-gray waters fifty yards off the ship's quarter. A heavy vibration filled the air, and then died away.

The dissonant drums! In moments, they would begin to support the Sea-Priests. She had so little time.

“Be but a few moments before they're in range, sorceresses!” called Denyst.

Secca took a deep breath and stepped up to the railing above the main deck. “The first building song. Now!”

“The first building song,” repeated Palian. “At my mark. Mark!”

Secca pushed the headache, the wavering vision, the double images, even that of Alcaren holding the lutar case and watching her, all out of her mind and concentrated on the spell, on the words, on meshing with the melody that rose from the players below.

She began to sing, and she was the spell that rose from the Silberwelle.

Secca managed another breath between the stanzas, knowing that she needed at least two complete stanzas to build the spell fully.

As the last notes died away, a silence seemed to creep across the afternoon. The swells around the
Silberwelle
flattened, and the gray light filtering through the hazy clouds dimmed even more, until the sky was almost black—and silent.

From somewhere in the distance came a low and growling rumble, followed by a high-pitched whistling whine, before the two sounds merged into a rushing and roaring torrent.

Secca tottered, her hands on the railing, trying to hold herself erect as a series of black columns reared out of the suddenly flat waters of the Southern Ocean. Each waterspout column split into two, one silver and one black, just as each player on the deck seemed to have doubled, and each sail and white hull.

The spouts moved slowly, inexorably, toward the white hulls, touching one, then another, and as each dark spout touched a Sturinnese vessel, that ship disintegrated into splinters flying in all directions. With each disintegration, the screams unheard by few others—that Secca understood—reverberated inside her skull, until she wanted to lift her hands to her ears to block out the sounds of death and destruction.

Richina's hands went to her ears, and Alcaren staggered as if struck, but straightened.

Scattered drumming rose—and then vanished.

Both the roaring and the screams continued to rise, until their combined din was all that Secca could hear, a roaring shriek that began to drive her to her knees, a roaring so powerful that she could not even lift her hands to block the sounds that prostrated her. Her fingers, trying to hold to the railing, failed, and she could feel her body crumpling, sliding down beside the railing, until she was sprawled on the deck of the
Silberwelle
.

Lying on the deck, her life being wrung out from within and without…she shuddered as the darkness fell across her, sensing that her chest was frozen, that she could neither speak nor breathe.

“No!” screamed Richina. “No!”

Someone was singing, but she could not hear the words.

A voice from far away—far, far away—announced gravely, “The sorceress has left the shadows.”

No! she wanted to scream. I'll always be in the shadows now. I'll never live, never love. For she could feel the cold darkness, and the blackness, and the dissonance, all gathered above her, descending….

The
Silberwelle
's sails flap once and then hang from their yards, limp, in the sudden stillness that surrounds the Ranuan trading vessel, a stillness at variance with the roaring and rushing sounds that rumble toward those standing on the deck.

Alcaren's eyes dart from the massive water spouts that have begun to shred the Sturinnese fleet to the slender, almost-fragile redheaded figure who grasps the railing overlooking the main deck of the
Silberwelle
. He swallows as he watches her fingers spasm and her body shudder, as if pummeled by forces no one else can see or hear.

As she grasps the railing to steady herself, Richina's eyes are fixed on the white-hulled ships being shattered by the dark spouts, as are those of the ship-mistress of the
Silberwelle
.

Only the gray-blue eyes of the Ranuan overcaptain see Secca crumple, see her slide down beside the railing, her fingers limp, her eyes closed. Lutar case in hand, Alcaren takes two steps, then rushes toward the forward railing and the fallen sorceress.

At the sight of Secca collapsing, Palian turns from the players and the destruction on the sea to the south and begins to scramble up the ladder.

Richina turns, slowly, her mouth opening into a soundless cry.

The redheaded sorceress lying on the deck on her back opens
her eyes, then her mouth, as if to speak, then shudders, her eyes wide, seemingly sightless.

Alcaren fumbles open the lutar case, snatches Secca's lutar from within, and stands over her. He clears his throat and begins to sing, his voice true, but carrying an edge that threatens to overwhelm training and past discipline.

Palian stops at the top of the ladder and shudders, her eyes flicking back and forth between the sorcerer and the dying sorceress.

Richina moves step-wise toward the pair by the railing, as if uncertain as to what she could or should do even as Alcaren's voice completes the spell.

A single long note—somehow half-harmonic, half-Clearsong, and half-dissonant, half-Darksong—vibrates through the air, and the entire ship shivers. Crystalline shard notes slash at those who can hear the Harmonies. Richina and Palian shiver again, as if slashed by unseen knives.

The strings on Secca's lutar snap, and the metal ends flay Alcaren's hands and jaw, leaving long red lines. His legs fold under him. He topples forward, like a tree cut with a single swing of an axe, and the lutar drops from his limp fingers and strikes the deck with a single half-melodic
thunk
that echoes far more loudly than it should.

Richina and Palian stare for a long moment before rushing toward the fallen couple.

“Darksong,” murmurs the chief of players. “Twice.”

Tears stream down Richina's cheeks as she looks helplessly down at both figures on the deck before her.

Palian drops to her knees, her fingers searching for signs of life.

In the time just before midmorning, sunlight flowed through the windows of the main chamber of the Matriarch's guest quarters, the first sunlight Secca had seen in days, if not in weeks. A warm and light breeze flowed through the partly open end window, bringing in the smells of an early spring.

Secca looked down at the scroll before her on the conference table, her eyes skipping over the lines she had struggled to write, struggled because with each word, she fought another battle, one having little to do with the words before her.

She shook her head. “Writing this is hard.”

“Writing anything might be a little harder than usual,” pointed out Richina. “After all, you did so much sorcery you almost died, and that was less than a week ago.”

Although Secca knew better—she had died, or had come so close as to make little difference—she did not correct the sandy-haired young woman.

At the
thrap
on the door to the guest quarters, Secca sat up straighter in the armchair pulled up before the conference table. She laid aside the quill with which she had been writing to Lord Robero.

“Overcaptain Alcaren, ladies,” called Rukor. “If the Lady Secca can receive callers.”

Secca swallowed, her eyes going to the door.

Richina looked to Secca.

“I'll…I'll see him,” Secca finally said.

“Have him enter,” Richina said quickly, standing and striding toward the door, as if to make sure that Secca did not change her mind.

Secca turned her head at the sound of hoofs on the long drive outside the windows of the guest quarters, although she could not see the drive from where she sat at the table. As the door opened, she looked back toward the broad-shouldered figure who stepped inside.

“Come in,” said Richina belatedly, holding the door wide. “She is much better.”

Secca felt as though a bolt of Clearsong had shivered through her heart and thoughts, freezing her where she sat for a long moment.

Richina closed the door, her eyes on Secca.

Secca felt all eyes were on her, from everywhere, even though there were but three of them in the chamber.

Alcaren stepped toward the armchair, and Secca could see that the red welts on his cheeks had begun to fade. The overcaptain swallowed, his eyes full on Secca. “I did not want to intrude until you were well enough…I brought this for you…something to take with you,” he offered, stopping just short of where Secca sat and extending a rose, the perfect white bronze rose with an iron stem, so delicate-appearing it seemed the slightest breeze would rip off the petals.

“It is beautiful.” Secca hesitated, glancing down at the uncompleted scroll, then turning her eyes back to Alcaren.

“Like you, it is far stronger than it appears,” said the sorcerer/overcaptain gently.

Secca did not speak for a moment, a moment she knew was as fragile as appeared the rose Alcaren held. What words could she offer? How could she say what she felt?

“Though it is not so beautiful,” Alcaren murmured, his voice so low she could barely hear the words.

Secca wanted to reach out, to draw him to her. Instead, she looked into Alcaren's gray-blue eyes. “Thank you…for the rose…for my life…for everything.” But thanks were not enough. Could she say more? How could she not? And yet…what? How?

Alcaren looked down for a moment, then raised his eyes to Secca's amber ones. The faintest of smiles showed at the corners of his lips.

The silence drew out, as eyes met eyes.

“You…no one…” Secca felt as though each word tripped over the one previous. “I wish I had…seen…sooner.”

“I saw you had,” he answered slowly. “I was unsure if I should come…after that. I was not well…either…at first, and then…”

Secca ignored Richina's puzzlement, concentrating on Alcaren, trying to find the words, trying to step from behind the years of walls so carefully built. “I'm…glad…you did. I do not know…if I would have had your courage.”

“My lady…I could do no other.”

Secca laughed, softly, warmly. “I did not mean your saving me…although that was a sacrifice no one could expect…and most courageous.” Her eyes dropped to the rose for a moment before meeting his gray-blue eyes again. “I meant coming here.”

“That…was harder. I thought of coming yesterday.”

“I thought of seeking you,” Secca said slowly. “I was not brave enough.”

“You nearly died,” he offered with the smile that warmed her. “Few would question that bravery.”

“You couldn't say…could you?”

“I feared you saw,” he replied. “I thought you might guess every time I looked at you.”

“I did guess,” Secca admitted. “I was afraid to believe it.” She looked up at Alcaren.

“As was I,” he replied.

At the click of the door opening, both turned their heads, as did Richina.

Another figure stepped into the room, just ahead of the announcement by Rukor. “The Matriarch of Ranuak.”

Alcaren turned. “Matriarch?”

Alya laughed, gently, as she approached the pair by the table. “I had not thought to find you together, but that is as it should be.”

Secca could not help but smile at the slightly puzzled expression and knit brows displayed by Richina.

“The sorceress understands, Alcaren, and so does your heart, if not your mind,” said the Matriarch.

“It never ends, does it?” said Secca, fighting for a way to say what she needed to without the Matriarch saying it for her. “No matter how mighty the battle and how great the victory?”

Alcaren's eyes flicked to Secca, then back to the Matriarch.

“No.” Alya shook her head. “The rebellion burns hotter yet in Neserea, and the Sturinnese still hold Dumar, and they will send more fleets. And if you destroy those, as did your predecessor, you will still have to fight battles in sunshine and shadow.”

“More battles? The lady…” Alcaren began.

“The lady needs you,” Secca managed to blurt out, her mouth dry, before anyone, anything, could stop her, before someone else spoke for her.

Alcaren turned to Secca, the gray-blue eyes wide, his lips parted slightly.

“You're the first in years to give without asking, without expecting,” Secca said. “And no one has ever risked so much for me.”

“I had not…” Alcaren turned to the Matriarch. “If the lady will let me serve her, I would ask your leave to be released from your service.”

Alya laughed. “Separating you two would be worse than your mixing Clearsong and Darksong. Far worse, and there is no way you can remain in Ranuak, not now that the world knows you are indeed a sorcerer. Though I will keep the Ladies of the Shadows in the towers until you are both departed.”

“But…you said I could never be a sorcerer,” Alcaren replied.

“Not in Ranuak,” Secca said gently. As Alcaren turned to her, she felt the moment freeze, everything becoming as still as it had upon the
Silberwelle
just before the waterspouts had destroyed every Sturinnese ship, before the recoil had killed her, and before Alcaren had offered his spellsong and life to save hers. She had to make it clear to everyone, but especially to herself. “Liedwahr and Defalk need you.” She swallowed and repeated, “So do I.” She felt even more defenseless than she had on the
Silberwelle
as dissonance had swooped down on her. But she waited, hoping. Hoping she had not waited too long already.

“I had hoped…” he began, bending toward her, his eyes bright.

Secca lifted a hand, reaching out and touching his cheek. “I had not even dared to hope…not for so long.”

“Nor I.” Alcaren's right hand took her left, his fingers entwining with hers, as he set the perfect rose on the table and lifted her from the chair into his arms.

Her arms went around him, as the sunlight fell across them, and, outside, the first sounds of spring murmured in the midmorning air.