The predawn gray seeped into the main chamber where Secca checked the sheaf of spells she had readied. She doubted she would have the time to check them again, or even use any except the first two, but she slipped them into the saddlebag anyway.
Moments earlier, as she had finished dressing, she had heard the first companies of lancers riding toward the harbor, and that had meant she needed to head down to the lower level and to play her part.
Abruptly, the very air began to shiver around Secca, or so it seemed, and then an anguished chord rattled through her. She glanced toward the windows, but they were not shaking. A wry smile crossed her lips. The wrenching of the Harmonies was an indication that the Sea-Priests had indeed called up their great wave. The smile vanished as she wondered if Alcaren and the Matriarch had been right—that the wave would not greatly damage Encora.
She forced herself to the window to watch.
For a long time, nothing happened. Another company of lancers rode out of the guest quarters, and then a third.
Secca squinted. A silver-gray was filling the lower part of the drive—water! Rushing water. From the guest quarters windows she watched as grayish water flooded up the drive from the harbor, then seemed to stop. The water was only a bit more than hock deep on the trailing mounts of the next lancer company to leave the guest barracks.
To the south, she could see masts swaying…but only swaying. She hoped that the Matriarch’s judgment about what a great sorcerous wave could do to Encora had been correct. She watched for several moments longer, but the water across the drive got no deeper, and, in fact, seemed to be slowly receding.
With a nod to herself, she picked up her saddlebags and lutar, and then the traveling scrying glass. She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. There Gorkon took the mirror and saddlebags and followed her down the wide stairs. Richina, who had been watching from her doorway, scurried to catch up.
Secca had barely stepped through the archway above the rear steps to the guest quarters when Alcaren rode up the paved lane, his mount spraying water from the puddles remaining. The Ranuan overcaptain had a grim smile on his face.
“The wave wasn’t that deep, was it?” Secca asked.
“No. It was just what you and the Matriarch had hoped for. The Sturinnese raised the ocean, but the shallows spread it thin.”
Secca gestured toward the south and the damp streets and puddles between her and the harbor. “This was scarcely like what happened to Narial.” She still couldn’t quite believe the difference.
“Of course not. Great waves can break over the land only when there are deep waters and narrow shallows. Here the shallows stretch for tens of deks, and widen as they near Encora, so the great waves break far from the harbor, and the harbor level rises but little. The Matriarch warned those in the coastal towns to move to higher ground. While there was doubtless much damage in Nerula and Gherste, we can hope few lives were lost.” Alcaren paused. “As you and the Matriarch discussed, such sorcery is most difficult, and now that the waters are receding, we should hasten to the piers before the Sturinnese can refresh themselves.”
“I am ready now.”
“So am I,” added Richina.
“If you would summon the players, Richina,” Secca requested.
“Yes, lady.” Richina turned and hurried across the damp stones, her boots occasionally splashing water.
Secca turned full to Alcaren. “Is it likely that they could raise yet another wave while we are in the channel, or just leaving it?”
“It is possible. Anything is, but they have never done so two times on the same day.”
“Let us hope they do not today,” Secca said as she stepped toward the gray mare that Rukor was leading from the stable.
At the end of the long courtyard that separated the wings of the barracks, the players were gathering and mounting, strapping instruments in place. Secca watched for a moment before she saw Palian’s gray-haired figure, and Delvor chivvying the second players into order. Richina began to hurry back across the courtyard, this time mounted and riding around the players, and the last company of lancers—and the squad of Alcaren’s SouthWomen that would also accompany Secca.
After fastening the saddlebags with spells and her cased lutar in place, Secca half-climbed, half-vaulted into the saddle, then turned to wait for Palian and the players.
Palian was already riding from the barracks courtyard toward Secca, raising her hand. “We stand ready, lady.”
“Then let us go.” As Secca replied and turned the gray back toward the harbor, the sky was turning a brighter gray—not orange, for the heavens held the same hazy formless clouds that seemed to be almost constant through the winter in Encora.
Riding down the damp stones of the lane, past the boxwood hedge toward the boulevard, Secca tried to check everything. So did Alcaren, riding slightly forward and to the sorceress’s right.
Two full companies of SouthWomen blocked the boulevard heading north, and as the gray mare carried Secca through the gates, Captain Delcetta rode forward. “If you don’t mind, sorceress, we would like to ride as shield.”
“Thank you.” Secca offered a smile, understanding all too well that if any of the supporters of the Ladies of the Shadows wished to act, now would be their last opportunity before Secca tried to deal with the Sea-Priests.
Richina rode to Secca’s left, and Alcaren to her right, both behind the SouthWomen and their shields. Behind Secca came the players, also shielded by the second company of SouthWomen. Secca felt as though she were almost in a moving box, with lancers all around her. Those nearest her bore silvered shields, held so high that she could barely see the buildings on each side of the boulevard.
The city area near the harbor held the odors of fish and salt, and all the walls of the buildings—from the chandlery to the weavers—showed an almost even water line at about half a yard above the paved and raised sidewalks. Those flooded streets were empty, except for the lancers, and the players. While it was still just before dawn, Secca wondered if the Matriarch had ordered the streets cleared.
Looking past riders and shields, Secca’s eyes searched every side street, but all she saw were lancers—regular Ranuan lancers in blue. She could also see that the water was quickly receding, as fast as it had risen, if not faster.
“The Matriarch had this whole part of the city cleared, didn’t she?” Secca said in a low voice to Alcaren.
“She did not tell me such, but it appears so.” The overcaptain flashed a brief smile. “It would certainly ensure that the Sea-Priests would know we are trying something.”
“So that they will attack us instantly?”
“Not instantly, but once we clear the channel and the shallows.”
At the open stone-paved plaza between where the boulevard ended and the loading area for the piers began, Wilten was waiting, mounted, looking north. As he saw the SouthWomen, and then Secca, a momentary smile of relief crossed his face. He rode forward toward the sorceress and her escorts.
“How did it go?” asked Secca.
“Everyone was prepared. Some mounts got skittish when the water rose around them, and we had to pull a couple out of the harbor. Drysel thinks he lost one lancer, unless he’s hanging onto a pier post or a rock somewhere.”
“Now it’s our turn,” Secca said. “Make sure everyone gets dry. It’s still winter, even if it’s late in the season and warmer than Loiseau.”
“That we will, lady. You be most careful.” Although Wilten’s words were addressed to Secca, his eyes rested on Alcaren.
“We will look after her most closely,” Alcaren said.
“I am most certain you will,” Wilten said firmly. “And you, Lady Richina, take great care as well.”
“Thank you, Wilten.” Richina inclined her head.
With a last nod and smile at Wilten, Secca urged the gray forward once more.
“The Silberwelle is at the second pier at the end,” Alcaren said.
“I can see the ship.” Secca reined up at the base of the second long stone pier, now merely covered with a film of water. After dismounting and handing the gray’s reins to Rukor, she unfastened the lutar and saddlebags. Easlon and Dymen scrambled to dismount—as did Richina and several of the SouthWomen.
Still surrounded by guards and lancers, Secca walked seaward along the pier until she neared the gangway to the Silberwelle.
“Lady Sorceress!” called a voice. Although the voice was deep and strong, the woman who stepped forward to the railing beside the gangway was less than a span taller than Secca and not all that much broader. Her face was tanned and weathered, and a broad smile showed even white teeth. “Denyst, captain of the Silberwelle.”
“I’m Secca, and this is Richina. She’s also a sorceress.” As Secca stepped on board, she nodded to Alcaren. “You know Alcaren?”
“Since he was mayhap knee-high.” Denyst smiled. “Glad to see he’s been put to good use.”
As he half-bowed to the captain, Alcaren’s smile was somewhere between amusement and relief, Secca judged.
“He was one of those to persuade me to help you, sorceress,” continued Denyst. “I can’t say any of us much like sailing out to a war fleet.”
“Nor do I,” Secca replied. “But we have to do something.”
“We do. We’ll not sail anywhere if we do not,” Denyst nodded. “Being as this is a short voyage, you sorceresses can have my cabin, and the players can use the mess.”
Secca glanced to Alcaren.
“I’ll show Palian and Delvor,” the overcaptain affirmed.
“They’ll need somewhere to keep their instruments dry until it’s time to play.”
“The mess will do for that.”
Secca turned as she caught sight of Palian leading the players toward the gangway. “Here are the players.” She waited until the two chief players were on the deck.
“Palian is my chief of players, and Delvor is the chief of the second players.” Secca gestured toward the two.
“Welcome to the Silberwelle.” Denyst inclined her head to the two. “We’d like to be setting sail in less than a glass. Take us three glasses to clear the channel.” Denyst turned to Alcaren. “The overcaptain will be showing you where you’ll be hanging your cloaks.” She turned to Secca. “If you’d not mind…”
“Go ahead, captain,” Secca said. “Alcaren can get us settled.”
“Once we’re under way, I’ll find you. There are a few things we need to talk over while we’re headed down the channel.” For a moment, Denyst turned to watch the SouthWomen and lancers walking up the gangway. She looked back at Alcaren. “They’ll have to be quartered in the fo’c’sle bay.”
“That will be tight.”
“Put some in the port crew room if you have to.”
“Yes, ser.” Alcaren nodded.
Denyst turned aft and climbed the ladder to the poop deck.
As the Ranuan captain stepped away, Palian looked to Secca. “In what fashion would you like us to proceed?”
“The Sturinnese may call storms or something upon us. You and the players will wait in the mess room until just before you are to play. That way we may avoid wet strings and soaked players. Richina will summon—”
“It might be best if I summoned them on your signal,” Alcaren suggested from where he stood to the right, near the railing. “You might need the Lady Richina’s skills.”
Alcaren’s suggestion made sense, but Secca wondered if she were coming to rely too much on Alcaren. “You’ll summon the players on my signal.” She addressed Palian. “You know the two spellsongs we plan to use, but we still may have to use the long or short flame song.”
“We understand.”
Alcaren gestured toward the lancers who were forming up behind Secca and her group on the main deck and then at the players milling by the starboard railing.
“Alcaren…perhaps you’d best get everyone settled,” Secca suggested. “Then the five of us should meet again. Richina and I will wait here.”
“With your guards and some lancers.” Alcaren smiled. “I’ll have Dymen take the lutar and mirror and saddlebags to the captain’s quarters so that you don’t have to keep carrying them. If that meets with your satisfaction?”
Secca nodded.
Alcaren gestured, and Easlon and Dymen stepped forward, along with a half-score of the SouthWomen.
Boxed in as she felt, Secca repressed a sigh, but handed the lutar to Dymen, and then the saddlebags.
As she waited for Alcaren to return and for the Silberwelle to move from the pier, Secca studied the vessel itself. The main deck was higher above the water, and the ship had greater freeboard than the Alycet. The Silberwelle was also a good thirty yards longer and ten wider, clearly a deep-ocean vessel built for long voyages while heavy-laden. The three masts were all square-rigged.
As had been the case with the Alycet, every surface was smoothed and varnished or oiled, and the brasswork gleamed.
“It is a beautiful vessel,” murmured Richina.
“Single up!” came the command from the poop deck. “Harbor rig!”
“Aye! Harbor rig!”
Secca watched as the crew, men and women, swarmed up masts and let out canvas, and then cast off.
Under the light northeast wind, the Silberwelle glided away from the pier and toward the southwest, but long before nearing the shore, eased onto a more southerly heading, in the middle of a channel that seemed deks wide. But even Secca could see the lighter shades of the shallower waters, not all that far to either side of the ship.
“If you’d join me, Lady Secca,” called Denyst.
“Why don’t you wait here for Alcaren, Richina?” Secca said.
“As you wish, lady.”
Secca turned and climbed the ladder. Denyst stood several yards to the left of the helm platform, itself raised above the upper deck.
“Most have not talked of this, but the Sea-Pigs could raise another wave as we clear the channel,” suggested Denyst.
“Alcaren said they couldn’t create as large a wave here.”
Denyst laughed. “Not so large as elsewhere, but it might be a good ten yards from crest to trough just beyond the channel. Hit us sideways, and we’d go over.”
“Oh…”
“In the open sea, wouldn’t be near as big, and a good ship’d hardly notice it, just a big even swell.” Denyst laughed. “Well…we’d notice it, because the sea flattens, but any good ship mistress could handle it. They do it offshore, and it’d break at the end of the channel, and that’s where it’s dangerous. Once beyond the shoaling, the break would lift everything maybe two yards in foam and water.”
“What would you suggest?” asked Secca.
“I’ve told the others to hang back. Silberwelle will be battened down. If the wind holds, two-three deks shy of the channel end, we’ll pile on full canvas and race for the open water. There’s but a one-or-two-dek space where a great wave could break.”
“That’s why everyone should be below?”
Denyst nodded.
“Including us?”
“You won’t be doing us much good, lady, if you’re washed overboard before we get to the Sea-Pigs.” The captain offered a humorous smile, as she continued, “And I wouldn’t stand well with the Matriarch if I allowed that to happen.” She turned to watch as Alcaren climbed up the last few steps of the ladder and crossed the poop to the two women.
“Captain.” Alcaren bowed. “All the lancers and players are settled.” He turned to Secca. “Your chief players have begun the tuning and practicing.”
“Thank you,” Secca said.
“Before long, in the next glass or so, best you settle yourselves in my quarters,” suggested Denyst.
“We will,” Secca promised. “Could we stay up here for a bit, though?” She thought Alcaren would appreciate the fresh air as well.
Denyst nodded.
Secca eased to the starboard railing and gazed out to the west. The vessel had already passed the ancient harbor where she had practiced her sorcery. She pointed back to the northwest. “Is the old harbor about there?”
“I think so,” he replied. “It’s hard to see from the channel.”
A jetty and a breakwater—all that remained of a harbor once created and maintained by mighty sorcery. She shook her head and studied the coast and the dark rocks, rocks that began to lighten as the orange ball that was the sun rose out of the Eastern Sound.
The wind seemed to strengthen as the Silberwelle sailed farther from Encora itself, and spray began to mist over the bow.
The sun stood well over the isle that formed the eastern side of the channel when Alcaren looked toward Denyst, then touched Secca’s arm.
“I know. It’s time,” she said.
Richina waited on the main deck as Secca and then Alcaren climbed down the ladder.
“We’re headed below,” Alcaren said. “It could get very rough when we start to leave the channel.” He gestured for Richina and Secca to enter the doorlike hatch he held open. “The captain’s quarters are the farthest aft.” After Richina eased past him, he smiled and looked at Secca. “You’re fortunate that Denyst likes you. Not every ship mistress would offer her quarters.”
Secca smiled. “I think I am fortunate that she likes you.”
Alcaren flushed. “Ah…”
“Oh…you knew her before?” Secca wondered if Denyst had been a former lover, knowing that it was none of her affair, yet…She pushed the thought away.
“No…not as a friend or acquaintance…She is one of my mother’s closest friends.” The Ranuan shook his head. “I had not thought to presume…but she offered the Silberwelle, and it is one of the largest and most sea-worthy, and she is noted for surviving storms that have sunk other vessels.”
“We are both fortunate.” Secca hoped the captain’s abilities and fortune would continue. With a smile, she turned and eased toward the hatch door, suddenly aware of how close the broad-shouldered overcaptain was, but she slipped past him without flushing and made her way along the narrow passageway. While she did not have to duck, anyone much taller would need to be most careful.
The captain’s quarters were spacious—for a vessel—nearly five yards in width and almost as deep, with a recessed double-width bunk against the forward bulkhead, a series of built-in chest cabinets against the rear, and a round table in the middle of the room. Secca noted that all the chairs around the circular table were fastened to the wooden deck, as was the table itself. Alcaren, or Dymen, had placed the lutar in a net-covered open wooden bin fastened to the bulkhead with brass-studded heavy leather straps.
“Why did the captain want us in here?” asked Richina.
“She thinks that the Sturinnese may try to bring another great wave against us as we leave the channel before we can get to the safety of the open seas,” replied Alcaren.
“Safety of the open seas?” Richina looked puzzled.
“The safest place for a ship in a storm is well away from the coast and from the shallower waters right off the coast,” Alcaren explained. “A truly safe harbor, such as Encora, is best. After that, the open seas are to be preferred.”
Secca and Richina exchanged glances.
Alcaren shook his head. “The shallows will break a ship.”
After several moments, Secca turned her head to Richina again. “We need to start some vocalises. I don’t know how long it will be after we leave the channel before we find the Sturinnese.” Or before they find us.
Alcaren nodded slightly.
The two sorceresses had completed a series of two long, drawn-out, and gentle warm-ups, when the pitching motion of the Silberwelle began to increase.
“I think we’re out of the channel,” offered Alcaren, straightening in the chair he had taken closest to the hatch door. He swallowed.
A half-smile flitted across Secca’s face as she recalled Alcaren’s discomfort with sea travel.
A deep bass rumbling filtered through the hull of the ship, a rumbling that seemed to go on and on. At the sound or sensation, Secca cocked her head. Across from her, Alcaren frowned, also tilting his head slightly.
Secca glanced at Richina. “Did you…?”
Richina nodded, her face showing apprehension.
Secca’s eyes went to Alcaren again.
He shook his head.
Then, not all that later, the pitching of the ship stopped, almost abruptly, as if the Silberwelle had entered an area of calm water. Alcaren frowned again, then lurched from his chair to the forward porthole where he looked out through the green-tinted thick glass.
“What…?” began Secca.
“Hold on to the chair. Hold tight!” Alcaren wrapped his arms around one of the circular posts framing the captain’s bunk.
“Why—” Richina tightened her hands over the carved arms of her chair.
“Another wave! Hang on!”
Secca gaped as she felt the deck tilting, the forward bulkhead of the cabin seeming to rise a good two yards above the rear one, and she could feel her feet dangling away from the deck for a long moment.
Then abruptly, the bow dropped with a lurch, and Secca’s stomach dropped with it, and her boots slammed down on the deck. The light from the portholes vanished momentarily as dark water appeared outside, and then was replaced with foam, and then the gray of day. Despite the closed hatches and the raised coaming of the hatch to the captain’s quarters, a thin sheet of gray-blue water poured across the wooden deck of the captain’s cabin.
The Silberwelle continued to ride through a series of maneuvers, combining a slight tendency to corkscrew with irregular pitching of decreasing intensity.
Secca wasn’t sure which had shocked her more, the fact that the Sea-Priests had been able to use sorcery for another great wave or the fact that Alcaren had sensed the disruption of the Harmonies, as though he were a sorcerer. Alcaren…a sorcerer?
Secca wanted to shake her head even while the ship continued to ride out the aftermath of the wave. A sorcerer! That made sense, and yet, the fact that he had used no sorcery somehow reassured her, but she couldn’t say why. Nor was she ready to struggle with all that implied—not right before a sorcerous sea battle, and not when Alcaren had been trustworthy in all that he had said and done.
Richina looked pale and Alcaren positively green by the time the hatch door opened to reveal a figure in blue.
“Selya, first officer. Captain would like you topside.” Selya did not wait for their response, but disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.
Secca took the saddlebags and the cased lutar and headed along the passage to the open main deck. Outside, in the chill sea air, she glanced around. The Silberwelle looked little different, save that all surfaces were wet and water sloshed along the decks.
Turning, she climbed the ladder to the poop deck, and crossed to the railing around the helm platform where Denyst stood.
“Quite a ride there, if I do say so,” said the captain. “Nothing we couldn’t handle, though. Been through worse in the fall storms in the Bitter Sea. Lookout has sighted sails to the southeast. They’re faster, but the wind’s with us. I thought we should let them catch us. Otherwise, they might get suspicious.” She looked at Secca.
“How long will it take?”
“A glass, I’d wager.”
“That would be good. Can you let us know about a quarter-glass before they get in range for their fireshafts?”
“You want all of them close?”
“At least a handful,” Secca said. “We can’t do spell after spell.”
“The Matriarch said we might be able to pick up a few ships…”
“That’s possible—if the spells go right.”
Denyst nodded, “Spare crews are on the Schaumenflucht.”
Secca glanced forward, noting that the swells remained constant, and still almost two yards from crest to trough. About every third swell, a thin spray rose over the bow, but only a little water struck the fo’c’sle, and only within a yard or so of the base of the bowsprit.
“More sails to the southwest, captain! Looks like a half-score!” came the call from the lookout above.
“Starboard ten,” ordered Denyst.
“Aye. Coming starboard ten.”
“Alcaren…” Secca began, then shook her head.
“You want the players on deck?” Alcaren swallowed as he finished the question.
“They don’t have to run, but better now than later.”
“I’ll tell Palian.” The Ranuan overcaptain turned and climbed down the ladder to the main deck, crossing the deck beside the mainmast.
Secca looked down at the lutar and saddlebags.
Richina took both with a smile.
Secca began another vocalise. “Holly-lolly-pop…” For some reason, she had to stop and cough up mucus, but after the second run-through, her cords felt clear.
“They’re running under full sail, captain, even the ones coming into the teeth of the wind,” reported the lookout.
“Sorcery?” asked Denyst.
“Wind sorcery,” Secca confirmed. She frowned as she realized the implications. The Sturinnese had raised two mighty waves, and each took a sorcerous effort that was similar to fighting an entire battle, at least from the way the Harmonies protested, and yet there were some Sturinnese strong enough to call up winds to speed their vessels. Just how much sorcery could they do?
Shortly, Alcaren returned. He glanced at Richina, carrying Secca’s lutar. “It might be better if I held this.”
Secca nodded.
“Thank you,” said Richina as Alcaren took the lutar.
Secca glanced out upon the fleet bearing down upon her three vessels. She could not even count how many, so numerous the sails appeared, but she saw no point in using sorcery just to discover numbers.
“A third of a glass or less before the lead frigate closes, sorceresses.”
Secca walked to the railing at the edge of the poop deck that overlooked the main deck and called down, “Players! First spell-song will be the third building spell. The third building spell. Less than a quarter-glass.”
“Run through on the third building spell!” ordered Palian. “At my mark…Mark.”
Although she managed to keep smiling, within herself Secca winced at the first few bars. The pitching of the Silberwelle had definitely affected their playing. But by the fourth or fifth bar, the raggedness smoothed out, and she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.
She looked up and out off the port side of the ship. Three of the white-hulled Sturinnese frigates were less than a dek away. Another three were closing on the Schaumenflucht.
She glanced toward Alcaren. His face was composed, but pale and greenish. Richina’s eyes were still fixed on the nearing Sturinnese vessels.
Secca closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on the first spell she would use, trying not to think too deeply about it. According to Anna’s notes, it wasn’t Darksong because it referred only to water as a substance, and not to any living aspect, but Secca wondered how close she would be coming to Darksong with it. Still…she had promised the Matriarch she would try.
She stepped back to the railing overlooking the main deck, where the players faced southward, to the port side of the Silberwelle. “Chief players!”
“We stand ready.”
“Third building song. Now,” ordered Secca.
“At my mark!” called Palian. “Mark!”
The opening bars were far smoother than with the run-through, and Secca concentrated on a smooth and free production, not worrying about actual projection, as she launched into the spellsong.
“Infuse with heat, and turn to steam,
the water within the veins and bloodstream
of each Sea-Priest and all whom they command;
Boil within their blood right where they stand…”
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.
“Turn to fire, turn to flame
All ships here with Sturinn’s name…
Turn to ashes, on this sea…”
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.
“Water boil and water bubble,
like a caldron of sorcerers’ trouble…
build a storm with winds swirling through
in spouts that break all ships in two…”
Secca managed another breath between the stanzas, knowing that she needed at least two complete stanzas to build the spell fully.
“Ocean boil and ocean bubble,
crush to broken sticks of floating rubble
ships crewed by those in Sea-Priest white
and let none escape the water’s might…”
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….