Esaria, Neserea
The Maitre stands in the small study off the far larger pillared chamber that had once served as the audience hall for the Lord High Counselor of Neserea, and, before that, as the throne room for the Prophets of Music. The adjoining study where the Maitre ponders what he must do had been the province of a junior counselor. The Maitre stands beside the desk table with a scroll in his hand.
He studies the scroll, then rereads the one paragraph half-aloud to himself.
With the aid of the sorcerers from the force that came from Dumar and joined us, we have destroyed more than three thousand of the Liedfuhr’s lancers and armsmen. Less than fifyscore remain, and they have scattered into the Great Western Forest and the Westfels to crawl back to Mansuur…
The signature is that of Marshal jerLeng.
The Maitre smiles, but only for a moment, before rolling the scroll and tucking it into his tunic. Then he turns and leaves the small study, crossing the audience chamber that stands empty except for the armsmen in Sturinnese white and turning down a corridor. In time, he comes to another chamber, one designed and built by the last Prophet of Music specifically for drum sorcery, although a scrying pool had later been added in one corner.
Beside that scrying pool waits jerClayne. The younger Sturinnese moistens his lips as the Maitre strides into the chamber, past another set of armsmen serving as guards, and closes the door behind him.
“Maitre,” offers jerClayne, bowing deferentially, but not excessively. His eyes are dark-ringed, and his face is pale.
“Have you found anything more?” The Maitre gestures toward the pool.
“No, ser. There are no signs of the home defense fleet.”
“None?” The Maitre’s eyebrows rise. “No signs of anything?”
“There was a storm, it appears, a very large storm.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Yesterday morning, the seas were almost calm. Today, the waves breaking on the reefs south of the Ostisles—”
“You used the reflecting pool to look at reefs?” A tone of incredulity tinges the Maitre’s voice.
“You asked me to discover what happened, Maitre. The pool showed nothing at all or open ocean. I tried a glass, but it was the same. The sorceress still holds wards against us, except they are not the wards we know. I could not view her at all, nor those close around her. I had two others try as well.” The younger sorcerer shrugs tiredly. “So I was forced to see if I could find other signs. They all pointed to a large storm. The skies were mostly clear just before the home defense fleet was to attack. I could not follow that, because we were attacking Esaria here. By late yesterday, there was a huge storm breaking up. Storms, as we know, do not appear from nowhere. I can only say what I have seen, and that is that the Shadow Sorceress created a storm mighty enough to sink the entire fleet.”
“And her ships were untouched, no doubt?”
“No, Maitre. One of the Ranuan ships is missing, and two others have heavy damage to sails and spars.”
“She would lay waste to what has taken generations to build, and she does it thoughtlessly and out of malice!” The Maitre’s voice rises. “She has no plan. She has no thought. She travels on a whim! And the bitch Matriarch provides ships.” He glares at the younger man for a long moment. “Destruction for destruction, but ours will not be such a waste. Fetch the players.”
JerClayne bows and turns, slipping through a side door, and returning almost immediately, followed by a half-score each of players and drummers.
Both sorcerers wait as the players and drummers arrange themselves.
“The sending spell,” the Maitre says. “On my sign.” He clears his throat, then raises his left hand and drops it.
The accompaniment begins, and the Maitre’s baritone is firm and clear, rising above both players and the insistent but muted drumming.
“Bring to Aerlya and Annyal the death of fire
the lash of dissonances and certain death’s desire…”
By the time he finishes the short spellsong, his face is red, and his forehead soaked in sweat. He takes several deep breaths, then uses a white cloth to blot his face and forehead. After another moment, he turns. “Check the glass, jerClayne. Let us see.”
“Yes, Maitre.” The younger sorcerer turns to the players. “The second seeking song.” When he receives a nod from the first player, he signals, then turns and faces the reflecting pool, and sings.
“In clear view, show us low and high
where Annyal and Aerlya now lie…”
The scrying pool obediently displays two blackened figures sprawled before a hearth that could have been in any cottage.
“Good.” The Maitre nods. “Good.”
Squinting as though he has trouble seeing, jerClayne sings a release couplet, and the image fades.
The Maitre does not speak, but turns and walks toward the doorway.
JerClayne bows, then massages his forehead. He sits down heavily on the tiled edge of the reflecting pool and closes his eyes.