"Are we going to be safe?" asked Richina anxiously. "Can you tell?"

He turned slowly. Even in the dim light, Secca could see that his face was bright red, as perhaps hers was.

"We've still got headway, and the waves are subsiding for now," Alearen finally replied.

Secca feared she understood what he meant. Feared that their spell had been all too successful.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the pounding in her bead and the daystars that flickered before her.

Alcaren eased himself back into his seat. "We'd only be in the way topside, at least for a while."

Then he tightened his lips and looked at Secca.

Richina looked from Secca to Alcaren and then back to Secca, but neither Alcaren nor Secca spoke. Both sat in the growing darkness, thinking, their faces burning.

89.

Esaria, Neserea In the dimness broken but by a single oil lamp, the Maitre is standing. He watches the door to the small study where he waits, off the audience hall, when there is a single rap on the door.

"You may enter, jerClayne."

"Ser . . ." The younger Sea-Priest bows, then swallows. The blotchiness of his face is obvious, even in the dim light. "Stura is no more, Maitre . . . not as we know it. The isle . . .it is little more than boiling rock."

"I could tell that a glass ago." The Maitre's voice is tight, and yet there is an anger like cold iron underlying his words. "Have you determined what happened?"

"All the great volcanoes, those that have not seen fire in generations . . . all of them . . . it is nothing I have seen, nothing I have read . . . it is not a thing we---"

"Do not tell me what we cannot do!" retorts the Maitre. "What she can do, we can do. We would not destroy a land and its people from spite and malice. What has Defalk done-ever? We have united peoples and brought peace to a quarter of the world. Defalk' s lords squabble among themselves. We have brought trade to all; Defalk not a single ship. Yet this . . . this girl . . . she has no thought but to destroy. She does not know what destruction is. But she will learn."

"All of us used the pool, ser," JerClayne stammers. "Stura---the port, it is buried under deks of glowing rock, and the same for Inylt. Even in the night, there is no darkness. Everything is lit with red light . . .and . . . nothing . . .nothing lives . . ." JerClayne's voice breaks.

"What of Trinn?"

"The western half, the lowlands, they . . . were flooded, and many died. Astaal, the northern and eastern half--- there the volcanoes spewed forth ash and lava, too."

"And the sorceress?" The Maitre's voice is implacable.

"Her ships sail northward. They did not stop or anchor. They did not even land. They sailed past, and she cast spells." The younger man shakes his head. "How could she?"

"She is a sorceress and an evil woman." The Maitre's lips tighten. "She is spiteful and malicious.

Because she cannot face us in open battle, she destroys men from a distance, and slaughters women and children. She has no honor; She has no decency. All Erde will now see her for what she is."

"She also maintains her defense spell. How any---" JerClayne shakes his head. "How could anyone do what she has done? And yet hold a ward?"

"She does not hold the wards. The younger sorceress does. While she knows less than the shadowsinger, she is well trained and strong." The Maitre purses his lips, as if considering whether to say more. "They call us cruel and ruthless, jerClayne. Think of it. We are cruel and ruthless, and we have slain but lancers and armsmen and a sorceress, and perhaps a few handfuls of peasants. They have devastated a land near as large as any of their petty countries. They have not conquered it; they have killed everyone there, as surely as if by a blade or a spear. Yet we are cruel."

JerClayne waits, receptively. Finally, he asks, "How did there come to be so many sorceresses when a generation ago there were none?"

"Because the great evil sorceress from the Mist Worlds was fortunate to arrive in Liedwahr when everyone was at everyone else's throat. First, she was tutored and taught by Lord Brill, who thought to use her as a tool, and instead was used and discarded by her. There were no other sor- cerers in Liedwahr---not trained ones. Lord Robero's sire perished at the hands of the Evult, and his grandsire the lord Jecks allowed her to live so that his grandson could become Lord of Defalk."

"She kept that bargain, did she not?"

"He had the title, an added set of lands, and the liedstadt and some trappings. She kept the power, and has passed it on to the shadowsinger and the others. The Ladies of the Shadows, Lord Robero, Lord Mynntar---how could they all have been so blind, you ask?" The Maitre laughs.

"Because all were desperate for peace, any kind of peace, and she gave them that. Those who did not wish her kind of peace vanished. By illness, by accident, or by some shadowy means that cast no light on her. That is how it happened, and that is why we are here."

"Can we defeat the shadowsinger, Maitre?"

"We can. She cannot use the spells she used in Stura here in Liedwahr. We must remember that victory comes to those who endure. Victories are not won by destroying lands, but by dominating people. There is no victory in ruling a land where nothing lives. We have already undone much of the damage she and her predecessor created. We hold Neserea, and Dumar is ours, as soon as any lancers return. Ebra will fall to a strong wind. We will move to Defalk, and bring it down, and when she returns, bring her down as well."

"How shall we begin?" asks the younger Sea-Priest.

"I must think. And think I will. For now, have the lancers and all our forces ready to ride by the second glass of the morning tomorrow. And have them bring every wagon that they can find in the city, heavily laden with provisions-the kind that will not spoil."

"Ah . . . where, Maitre?"

"You will see. The shadowsinger will see. The Matriarch will see. The bitch traders of Wei will see what the Sea-Priests of Sturinn are made of. All Liedwahr, and all of Erde will see, and feel what we will do." The. Maitre's eyes blaze. "Do not ask of details. Be content to know that Stura will be avenged. Be content to know that none will again cross us without knowing that their days are numbered. In time, when, that is clear, the shadowsinger will have to come to us, and when she does she will pay more than she knows can be paid. She will indeed." His words are as cold as frozen iron.

The younger Sea-Priest involuntarily steps back from the restrained anger and chill violence that fills the dimly lighted small room.

90.

Secca lay rigid on the captain's wide bunk, the memory of the internally clashing, agonized single note that embodied chords of both harmony and dissonance st ill reverberating through her entire body. Her face burned, as if a fire were consuming it again and again, moment by moment.

Beyond that, her head throbbed; her body ached; and daystars flashed across her vision.

"Your faces are blistered," Richina said, "as if you had ridden for days under a summer sun."

She eased the cloth she had wet once more in fresh water back over Secca's face.

"Or worse," Secca said, her voice muffled by the cloth. Even moving her lips sent faint lines of added pain radiating through her face and skull.

"Worse," mumbled Alcaren from where he sat, leaning back in one of the chairs around the table.

"How do you feel?" Secca managed.

"My face is just a little red, but I looked away when all that fire exploded into the sky. I am tired." Richina sighed. "I can feel someone probing the wards again."

"The Sea-Priests in Neserea," said Alcaren. "They have sorcerers."

The cabin door opened, and the captain stepped inside, her eyes going first to Alcaren, then to Secca, and finally to Richina. "How are they?"

"Their faces are blistered, from the heat," Richina replied. "In a glass, I will use Alcaren's balm, and, in a day or so, they will be better."

"What about the crew?" Secca asked, sitting up, despite her headache, and the fire in her face, and the pain in her eyes.

"We lost three off the yardarms when the wave hit. Near-on a half-score are burned like you, except more on their arms and necks. Too busy to be looking aft, I'd wager. Some of your players are scorched, too, especially your chief player."

Secca winced. She hadn't even thought of Palian. So much you haven't thought about . . .

"She is not so bad as you two," Richina said quickly.

"That's because the poop shielded most of them," replied Denyst.

"How about you?" asked Alcaren.

"Back of my neck. That's it." Denyst half snorted, half coughed. "Thankful we've spare canvas below. Half what we had on was shredded." There was a long silence. "Don't think we'll be worrying about the Maitre and the Sea-Priests ever again."

Secca squinted against the pain in her eyes and face, not that She could see with the damp cloth spread over her cheeks and forehead. "They still have a fleet in the Bitter Sea and more lancers than all of Liedwahr put together."

"You think they'll fight after . . ." There was another pause. "The Whole night sky to the south is red---bright enough to steer by or read a chart. The whole place is aflame, and you sang that spell near-on three glasses back."

Secca was silent "You said it was a terrible spell," Denyst mused. "Wasn't sure anything could be that awful.

Wrong, I guess."

"I made it as strong as I could," Secca said, all too conscious of the stiffness of her mouth and cheeks and lips. "I didn' t want them coming back to Liedwahr in another score of years, just waiting, and attacking again."

Denyst sighed. "You'd be right on that. Took 'em two-score years before they took the Ostisles, and threescore before that to take Pelara." There was another sigh.

"You think the cost was too high?" Secca tried to keep the edge out of her voice. Of course it was too high. It was something like this or watch them take Liedwahr.

"Lady Sorceress . . . what be done is done, and it's not like they were all servants of harmony.

Just . . . so sudden-like.

Secca swallowed, unable to speak.

"Till tomorrow, sorceress."

Secca listened to the door close, still holding herself half-erect, although her arms were beginning to tremble.

"Lady . . . you must rest," Richina said softly, helping Secca lie back down. "You must."

How can you rest? Secca lay in the darkness, her head pounding, knives slashing at her eyes, and her face burning, wondering how she could ever explain. You can't, except to Alcaren, or Richina, and maybe the Matriarch . . . Robero would never spend the golds to raise thousands of lancers and allow us to train scores of sorcerers and sorceresses, and that wouldn't work because we can't control them the way the Evult did or the Sea-Priests do . . .

Why was life the way it was? She didn't have scores' upon scores of lancers, and scores of sorcerers. She had three people and terrible spells. She could destroy a land, but, the three of them were only one force. The Sturinnese were everywhere--- in Ebra, in Dumar, in the Ostisles, in Neserea, and the three of them could be but in one. Yet, just as the Ladies of the Shadows faulted the ancient Matriarchs for using sorcery to save their people, she would be condemned- even if she succeeded. Are there sorceries so terrible that it is better to suffer defeat? Are you wrong to use them? Even when you see no alternatives?

Under the cloth, the tears oozed from the corners of her eyes, tears that scalded her burned face like steam, and silent sobs racked her.

91.

Northeast of Esaria, Neserea The Maitre stands on the headland to the northeast of the city he and his forces have taken and made their---if but for days. Now it stands empty of all those from Sturinn and all those who have served Sturinn, returned for the moment to those inhabitants who dared to remain. As he faces the west-northwest, his eyes study the city below the headland. "You will see, all of you.

You will see the might of Sturinn."

Then he turns to look over the players and drummers arrayed in a semicircle.

At the sound of boots on gravel he turns back to watch Marshal jerLeng approach, followed by jerClayne.

The lancer marshal bows, slightly, but deferentially, then straightens. "The lancers are drawn up to the east as you requested, Maitre, and we have stripped the city of coin and provisions. We stand ready to travel."

"Good. We will leave shortly. After we complete what must be done here." The Maitre nods to the younger Sea-Priest.

JerClayne also bows, slightly more deeply, before he reports. "The fleet has returned to the open water to the northwest, and the captains will do their best with the sorcerers they have, as the sorceress nears the Bitter Sea. They have your instructions."

"Excellent Now, we will do our best." The Maitre smiles grimly, and his eyes glitter with determination.

"If I might ask?" inquires jerLeng. 'What spell will you use?"

"One that gathers the dust and flame of the heavens and turns them into fireballs that will fall on Esaria. There is always dust and flame. Why, it might even gather fire and dust from Sturinn. A touch of justice, do you not think?" The Maitre laughs, hauntingly, a sound that rises almost into cackling.

JerLeng barely conceals a wince.

"Maitre . . . might I ask," stammers jerClayne, "what will this destruction do, besides create hatred and enmity?"

"Why, it will deliver a message. It will tell the world that Stura's might still lives, whether the isle of Stura does or not And that message is necessary," replies the Maitre. "Even though Stura is no more, much of what was Sturinn remains. By bringing down Liedwahr in shambles and de- struction, then we give Sturinn the time to rebuild. No matter how mighty this sorceress, she is but one of a kind. She has also shown us what else is possible, and with our players and drummers, we can and will do far more. When we succeed here, then we can return to our isles and the Ostisles and rebuild, knowing that we will have time to do so. If we were to fail to bring down this Shadow Sorceress, then what has made Sturinn great would cease to be for all time.

That must never be. Never!" He pauses, then asks, more quietly, "Is that not reason enough?"

Both men stiffen from the fire in the Maitre's eyes, and the iron in his words, as if they wished to step back, but dare not move.

The Maitre turns and steps forward to a position before the players and the drummers. He makes one sharp gesture, and the players begin, followed a bar later by the drums. The Maitre's voice joins them on the third bar.

"Raise waters of the deep to their greatest height . . ."

Before the end of the long stanza, a mournful groaning issues from deep within the earth, and a shudder runs through the land, and then a streaking ripple dances beneath the waters of the BitterSea, running northward and vanishing.

For a time, nothing occurs.