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.