Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong

by Greg Hamerton

  Tabitha grew cold. The Lifesong ... they wanted the Lifesong. The joy of receiving royal favour suddenly became an empty thing, a folly of words and titles that meant nothing. The vision she had tried to ignore all day rushed at her and her heart ached. She was dragged down and down, into that pit where the Goddess was chained, into the agony of Ethea’s condition. Tabitha’s present fame and fortune was founded upon the Lifesong, she was the Wizard only because she had been able to tune her voice to Ethea’s call. Now, with the Goddess in such a plight, with the source of her power failing, she had no heart to sing. She had no right to receive these honours, when the Goddess Ethea was the real source of her inspiration, and Ethea was suffering! Oh how she had cried out when the bird had been slain!

  Tabitha caught onto Garyll’s shirt as the sudden weakness threatened to suck her under.

  Maybelle was distraught. “Forgive me, Lady Tabitha, I was not thinking! You must be very tired from your work in Levin. Forget I asked. We should give you a rest from your troubles, a respite from all the terrible burdens you have borne. Oh forgive me, my dear Tabitha, I thought it might be a happy thing for you to do—”

  Tabitha pulled herself back from the edge of despair. She didn’t want to alarm the gentle Lady of Ceremony. May was such a caring soul. She didn’t know of the world Tabitha had seen, she didn’t know of the cries that echoed in Tabitha’s ears, the place of heat and sweat, where buildings grew upon buildings, up into the air. Tabitha vowed she would ask Maybelle if she knew of such a place, but only when they were alone, so her tears wouldn’t matter.

  “It’s all right, May, really, it’s all right. I am just very tired, but if you would like to give me a gift tonight, let it be that I don’t have to sing. I need peace, more than anything.”

  “Of course, let us speak no more of it now! Servants! Bring the sweets, and let us find the good taste of the meal again.” The harpers began a lively jig without needing to be prompted, and the nobles took to their seats with casual, friendly glances her way. Tabitha sank gratefully into her seat. She felt quivery in her bones. A bowl of sumptuous delights was placed before her, and she sank her spoon into the treacle-smothered cake before she could be stopped. If her mouth was always full, she decided, they’d have to wait until she was finished her dessert before asking questions. She closed her lips upon the spoon, and the sweet indulgence drowned her senses.

  “Peace! Peace never lasts! Those days are gone!” she heard King Mellar say, but he did not expand on his bitter words. He merely gripped his glass and looked into the depths of his red wine. The nobles looked as disturbed by his pronouncement as Tabitha felt, but after a pause they resumed their eating and conversations, none being bold enough to challenge the king in his present mood. Tabitha took a few more spoonfuls before risking a glance King Mellar’s way. In that moment he looked suddenly poorly, like an old man who was dismayed by his own mean reflection. Why wasn’t he wearing his crown? Something troubled the king deeply, but who could guess what it was?

  She decided to wait. The king had summoned her to an audience as well as to the banquet. He would speak his mind when he was ready, no doubt. She signalled to the serving-man for more dessert. It would do no harm to be fortified with sweetness when the time came to meet the king in private.

  9. A SHADE OF ANGER

  “It is a delicate dance of deception

  to fight your own shadow.”—Zarost

  Kirjath Arkell drove the king’s attention down into the blood-coloured wine. It was much like trying to stuff a man’s head into a rain-barrel—you could get him to the barrel easily enough, but to get his head all the way down took a long time. If only he could get the king to drink some more.

  Drink! Drown your misery, you worthless shred of a man. Raise your bloody hand!

  But the king sat motionless in his chair.

  He had had a grip on Mellar that first night when he was soggy with rum, but when the king had sobered he had become tough again and Kirjath had been driven to the back of his mind. Curse him! Kirjath had found other ways to move through the king’s thoughts. There was a mind beneath the Mind, a realm of desires and forces over which Mellar had no control. When Kirjath concentrated his anger in one area, he could aggravate the hidden mind until those deep things erupted through the higher levels of thought. So he had clawed back brief moments of power for himself, but it was not enough! For the most part, the king was still too determined to rule, too lucid, and Kirjath was like the fluid in the glass: the king held him in his clutch, confined, contained.

  He watched the king’s reflected face. It rocked hypnotically in the dark surface. Thin, fat, thin, fat again.

  Curséd miserable meddling king! Of all the men to be trapped inside! I should kill this man, and yet he is my life.

  What made Kirjath’s rage worse was that he had known it would begin like this. A Morgloth began in the strict vessel of the demonlord’s command. He had known of the trap, yet he could do nothing to avoid it. Now he understood the fury that drove the Morgloth. He felt the same wrath at being denied freedom. He wanted to dominate the body he was in.

  Ever since he had entered Mellar’s body, he had suffered from a hollow dread. He was in a body, but it wasn’t him, he couldn’t feel any of it. He was only aware, that was all, he had neither the shroud of essence nor the body which had absorbed the essence—he was merely there. He’d used Orangecap mushrooms when he was young—those acidic visions that stole your identity away for a terrifying few days. The deprivation of being in Mellar was many times worse. Everything was ruled by a persistent panic that he would come to nothing. Just a sudden impulse from Mellar, and he would be gone, dispersed forever. Ended.

  No, that would not be! He would not fail! He would possess the king entirely. He would taste the fine foods the king chewed on, he would speak his own thoughts to the nobles and he would command them all to his own will. He would feel the weight in his arms and the pressure in his own head. Strange, he realised, the things he wanted most were such ordinary things he had never even noticed that he had possessed them, in life. He would feel his own breath filling his chest. Yes, he would breathe, then he would know that he was alive. He writhed within the king’s skull like bad blood held in a wound, but he would get out. He would seep into every vein.

  Old king, I’m going to tear you up inside like a butchered lamb. You cannot refuse me. Drink the wine!

  The king was weakening. The glass shook in his hand. He squeezed harder and harder, and with a sudden crunch, the glass shattered in his fist.

  Kirjath felt the jagged cut. He felt it! The blood flowed quickly from his fist, amid the shards and wine. He rushed up through the king’s thoughts, borne upon the eruption of pain.

  The king was looking straight at the girl-wizard now. No! He would not have her interfering. He would not let the king ask for her healing. The little bitch! He should have defiled her when he’d had the chance. She wouldn’t be so high and noble now. She would know her place and not pretend to be a lady. The people worshipped her, even the nobles, just because the strumpet could sing.

  Kirjath watched her face, through Mellar’s eyes. Her cheeks were pale, but her skin was healthy, young and unblemished. Her nose was delicate, her big brown eyes were flecked with gold—so innocent, so sweet. Kirjath grinned.

  She jumped to her feet, her hands to her mouth.

  Kirjath-and-the-King stood, his chair scraping backward. He opened his fist, and threw the remaining shards down with his blood upon the table.

  “Meet me in my high chambers when you are done pleasing yourself,” he said. “We have dire things to discuss.”

  _____

  Kingsman Rood led them up and up, toward the king’s high chamber.

  Tabitha was glad Garyll was with her. The look the king had given her before departing had terrified her. He had seemed possessed by such deep rage. Garyll had noticed it too. He walked quickly, with his hands free, scanning everything around him. Tabitha recognised his mar
tial awareness. His hand strayed to the sword that wasn’t there.

  The stairway was narrow, the roof low. They passed a few deep window-slits, where the gloom was punctured with thin rays of cold afternoon light. As they rose, the roof seemed to get closer, until they were right up underneath the heavy stonewood. The walls were bare, except for an old mounted battleaxe they passed on the third landing. The limp pennant upon its shaft showed signs of losing its blue-and-gold threads to the moths.

  When at last they reached the squat, studded door at the head of the final flight of stairs, Rood knocked and ushered Tabitha and Garyll in.

  They bowed at the threshold. The room was simply furnished with a reading table, chairs, some bookshelves and a few great tapestries. A rank of gold-rimmed windows looked down over the city of Stormhaven and allowed the sunlight to filter in. Stacked clouds balanced upon the peaks of the eastern horizon.

  King Mellar sat in a window chair, looking outward.

  They stood silently, not daring to say a word lest the king was still in his foul mood.

  A white dove fluttered past the window then glided, angel-winged, away over the city. All was quiet.

  “So peaceful it seems,” said the king. “From up here, you never would suspect how fragile the web of Order is.” He rose and turned toward them. His gaze was hooded and intense, but his face was calm. He had a clumsy wrapping of linen upon his right hand.

  “See? I have bandaged the wound myself, I have stemmed the bleeding. I am in no danger.”

  He approached. “At last, I have you to myself. Pardon the need for all those stairs, but this is the one chamber I can be sure has no place for spies—no sounds can carry through these thick walls. I can take no chances at all.” He suddenly bowed low before Tabitha. “Most noble wizard, you grace all of Stormhaven with your wondrous presence!” He took her hand and kissed it. Tabitha felt a rush of blood to her head. He shouldn’t be so reverential before her. He was the king!

  “Th-thank you, your highness, I enjoyed the banquet.”

  King Mellar smiled. “Did you enjoy travelling in the royal coach, your holiness?”

  “Please, my king, please don’t use such titles. I am not holy, or wondrous, or magnificent.”

  “And you never think of how it is to be called King? Magnificence! I’d not thought of that one! But you surely are! You destroyed the Morgloth. You turned the Darkmaster’s tide! You cannot deny that you have changed everything. Your disappearance and reappearance are now matters of legend. We must acknowledge that your power is prodigal, oh divine wizard.”

  “Please, your highness, I feel so wrong when your words elevate me. You are my king.”

  “Does that make me highness? The people of Eyri need a figurehead to place their dreams upon. Glavenor here didn’t hold a steady sword, but you! You fought the challengers, you broke the dark spell. You triumphed! If I elevate you, the people are made proud, they follow my lead, and we have a kingdom at peace.”

  Tabitha had never thought of it that way.

  “I did my best to correct my mistakes,” Garyll said gruffly.

  The king looked hard at Garyll. “You left Stormhaven before I could speak to you.” Mellar held up his bandaged hand to forestall any explanations. “I know—you were reeling from the battle. Those who bear the Darkstones have revealed what it was like to feel the horror at awakening to their own deeds. I know a taste of the spell that plagued you. I understand. The Darkmaster was the foe, not you, but you were wise to leave your sword in Stormhaven. A broken oath cannot be mended.”

  That was too unfair to be left unanswered. “Without Garyll we would not have triumphed!” Tabitha objected. “The Morgloth would have taken me.”

  “True, true, and so he proved his worth to you, but a king needs a Swordmaster who stands at his own side against all threats to the crown.”

  “You said yourself that the Darkmaster was the foe, not Garyll. He should be pardoned!”

  “No, my love,” Garyll interrupted. “Our king is right. I know he can never forget what might have been. You know what could have happened if you hadn’t laid your own sweet neck in the way of my blade. You saved both our lives in that moment, so I expect no pardon. I can give none myself, that is why I set my sword and title aside. You, however, are deserving of all the praise heaped upon you.”

  “But I’m just Tabitha, underneath the titles. I’m just me!”

  “And what did you think I felt when I was first called highness?” the king asked. “I am just a man, under all these robes, Borace Montgomery Mellar. It is just the same. You cannot deny that you have power now, Lady Serannon. You must learn to wear it.”

  It still seemed unfair to her, that Garyll was scorned as she was praised. They were two parts of the union which had saved Eyri, but she could not argue with the king. She had already defied him far beyond her station. “Your highness, there is surely more to our being here than the conferring of titles.”

  King Mellar nodded before motioning them toward seats beside the window. “Indeed,” he said. “Indeed.”

  Before sitting, he glanced to the door where Rood stood. “Kingsman.”

  “On my way, highness,” the statesman said. He slipped out of the door and closed it gently. This was a very private matter, Tabitha realised. Rood had seemed a very trustworthy man to her. Mellar looked from Tabitha to Garyll, then back again. He seemed uncertain of how to begin, or maybe he was considering whether he was going to extend his trust to Garyll. Tabitha firmed her resolve to demand that he remain. The king probably guessed she would confide in Garyll anyway, so there would be no point in excluding him. Mellar edged closer on his chair. “I need your help.” He clenched his bandaged fist, but didn’t wince at the pain it must have caused him. “My crown has been stolen.”

  The room was perfectly still. Tabitha immediately looked to where the crown should have rested. The king’s copper hair kinked outward from his temples, so accustomed had it been to the pressure of the metal rim upon it. The shine had gone from his hair. It was dull, and lifeless.

  “When was it stolen, my lord?” Garyll asked.

  “During the battle on the forecourt, when the Morgloth came. I only had a moment to think about it then. I saw the boy but did not realise I was looking at a thief. Then we were all running.”

  “Who stole it?”

  “Oh, he stood among the scattering crowd with my crown as if he was waking from his nightmare, as if he was considering how shameful his behaviour had been. Oh my Bevn, my son! I was so wrong. Bevn has not returned. He has gone. He tempts forces he does not understand. He casts a bitter fate upon his father.”

  “The Sword should be alerted, they should search for him in force,” Garyll declared.

  “I have despatched a few teams, but they’ve not found hide nor hair of him. I fear he has learnt some of the Shadowcasters’ tricks. I cannot send too many Swords on such a mission. Word will get out that the crown has been lost. I cannot afford that, not now.” His suddenly hard eyes bored into Tabitha then Garyll. “I demand absolute secrecy in this matter!”

  “Do you intend to let him go?” Garyll demanded.

  “Do you?” King Mellar replied. The challenge was plain. “You sought my pardon, Glavenor. Here is your chance to prove your honesty and your worth. Find the Kingsrim, bring it to me, and you shall receive your royal pardon, in public.”

  “And what would you have me do?” Tabitha asked.

  “Lady Tabitha, with your skills you might find a clue where others have found nothing. I cannot leave Stormhaven, but I can supply you with whatever you need to accomplish the task. The Kingsrim must be retrieved.”

  “Can’t it—can’t it be replicated?” Tabitha asked. “Couldn’t a jeweller forge one anew?”

  “No!” The king gripped the arms of his chair. “No. There is more to the Kingsrim than just the metal. It must be retrieved, and soon! A month from now will be too late! It must come back upon my head. The peace of the whole kingdom is at stake.
”

  “But why, your highness? You remain the king, regardless of where your crown has been secreted away. Surely the peace of the kingdom continues with your governance? Prince Bevn cannot succeed you until he is much older, when you retire. Eventually he must come out from hiding and lose what he has stolen.”

  King Mellar gave her a haunted look. “I have no time to wait. Oh, I suppose you should know all of it. The Kingsrim has old magic, from the time of the Gyre of Wizards, from the time of the Forming. It is this same magic which keeps the order of Eyri together. Without it, so much will be lost. The Kingsrim is the axis upon which the wheel of Eyri’s order turns. It must be upon my head, upon this Isle, or the wheel shall fall off its axle. The pressure of disorder is too great. Do you know how much work is required to keep Order intact, to keep the rules in place? There are so many details to pay attention to, so many fine disputes which must be continually resolved to keep control. I must keep all of it in mind, every day. If I ignore any detail, it only becomes worse upon the next day, more urgent, then worse, and more urgent still. I must have the Kingsrim back.”

  The king turned aside to stare out of the windows. People scurried through the streets far below, like ants before the rain, each with their own task. From here, he directed their endeavours, she realised, not just Stormhaven’s people, but all through Eyri. He guided their behaviour with the administering of justice. He discouraged certain endeavours with laws or taxes, encouraged others with trade agreements, stimulated activity with building roads, bridges and waterways through the farmlands, collected surplus grain in good harvests and distributed food in times of hardship. He ensured that funding went to the healers and scribes and all the many learned folk who worked in the Houses of Rule around the forecourt, every one of whom were vital to maintain the systems of Eyrian public service. It all came through Stormhaven in the end. Every thread was held tightly in his fist.