Free Shadowsinger by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

we know such.”
    â€œSo long as we never rely on Lord High Counselor Fehern,” added Alcaren.
    Secca stood. “We still embark in three days. While we make ready,I would like you to think upon this, and how we might turn it to our advantage.”
    Wilten looked at Delcetta, then at Delvor, and finally at Alcaren. Each met his gaze without blinking. A long moment passed before he murmured, “As you will, Lady Secca.”
    Those around the table rose and bowed to Secca, except for Alcaren, who merely stepped back toward the windows while the others filed out of the chamber.
    After the door closed behind Richina, Secca and Alcaren exchanged glances.
    â€œIt’s a trap, you know,” Alcaren said.
    â€œA snare within a trap, I think.” Secca looked at Alcaren. “Yet waiting will tighten the noose more.”
    â€œThe Maitre has been planning this for years.”
    â€œHe has been planning longer. We’ll have to plan better,” she replied. After a moment, she added, “Once preparations are complete, and just before we embark, we should send a message by sorcery to Lord Robero telling him that we are beginning the effort to reclaim Dumar.”
    â€œDo you have some thoughts as to how we are to accomplish that, my lady?”
    â€œNot yet.” She smiled, half-sadly, not quite truthfully, as she recalled the notes hidden away in her pack, the ones taken from Anna’s notebooks with the spells she had shuddered to read, and shuddered more in reading Anna’s explanations. “Do you?”
    â€œNot yet, but I have great confidence in you.”
    Secca shook her head.
    â€œI do…It is just that you fear doing what you must do.” Alcaren grinned. “Remember, you don’t have to do anything this moment.” He glanced toward the bedchamber, with a half-leering smile, “except enjoy your consort.”
    â€œI never thought…” Secca began.
    â€œNeither did I,” he replied.
    They both laughed, and the sound was a mixture of rue and joy.

10
    Encora, Ranuak
    The Matriarch walks slowly toward the throne-chair of blue crystal that waits upon the low dais at the end of the formal receiving room. Her eyes barely take in the familiar room, or her distorted reflection in the shadowed long windows on the west side of the room, a reflection that does not show clearly the blonde hair that is silvering all too rapidly, nor the drawn face that has become more and more angular with each season.
    Silently, she steps up onto the dais, turning and seating herself on the blue cushion that is the sole softness within the chamber. She straightens herself upon the throne-chair of blue crystal, then clears her throat, before declaring firmly, “You may show her in.”
    â€œYes, Matriarch.” The voice of the guard is firm and clear, although he stands in the corridor outside the receiving room.
    The door opens. A gray-haired woman steps slowly into the formal receiving room, and beams of golden morning light slanting through the long windows bathe her boots. The short cut of her hair accentuates the roundness of her face, but the deep-set eyes are hard and cold. She offers a bow that is less than perfunctory. “Matriarch.”
    â€œYou expressed a desire to see me. What do you wish?” asks Alya.
    â€œI would like to know how long you intend to keep us prisoned in the White Tower. Or our daughters in the Blue.”
    â€œNot much longer, Santhya. It would not have been necessary had you not been so foolish as to try to kill the Sorceress Protector.”
    â€œI did nothing of the sort, Matriarch.” After a pause, she adds, “As you well know.” After a second pause, she continues, “Nor did I consort a sorcerer and a sorceress under the aegis of the Matriarchy.”
    â€œYou would rather I deny them that small happiness?” Alya snorts. “As for attempting murder, as one of your council, you approved