Some of the patrons laughed. Lyndall was already sweeping the floor; a girl well accustomed to accidents in the common-room.
“I saw six glasses burst, and I saw who held them,” Mrs Quilt called out. “You six may come aside for another, on the house.”
Tabitha left the stage feeling stunned and not a little stupid. She hadn’t realised it was possible to cause so much damage with the Shiver. She had never sung the Glee with so much passion before. The spry old lady from Russel was still clapping her hands with great merriment. At least one of the judges had enjoyed the joke. She hoped the others would remember her singing, and not the accidental extra damage.
The Swordmaster bowed slightly as she approached the bar. He had quenched the bleeding on his arm.
His jaw was clean-shaved, his cheeks reflected the oil-lamp at the head of the bar. He was looking directly at her.
“Care for a drink?” he asked.
She clutched her lyre tighter. “What?”
Glavenor had deep, dark eyes. “Would you care for a drink, Miss Serannon?”
Her blush was renewed under his gaze. She could feel his attention holding her. The smile he gave her could have melted ice.
Tabitha was too startled to answer. The great Swordmaster had just been assaulted by her exploding glass. Yet his voice was deep and warm, not at all the hard command of justice heard earlier, or the harshness she still expected now.
“I’m still on duty, Master Glavenor. I’m not supposed to drink while –”
“You’re off duty for a while,” cut in Mrs Quilt, leaning over the bar. “You’ve just sung, and Lyndall’s out cleaning and serving.”
“Sorry about the glasses, Mrs Quilt. I’ll pay for the damage.”
Mrs Quilt folded her arms across her ample bosom. “No you won’t. Better this, than the damage that would have been, had you not found my little Kip. A few glasses can be replaced, my child’s life cannot. I’ll cover the cost.”
“I feel so silly about it. I sang too loudly.”
“You did us proud with your singing, though I’ve learned something tonight. When there’s a handsome man at the bar, I’ll be hiding my glasses when you sing to him.”
At that comment Tabitha knew she blushed rose-red. She tried not to look at Glavenor’s arm, where the fresh cuts glistened as he removed the swab.
“A drink?” repeated the Swordmaster. She couldn’t avoid his attention any longer.
“I’d love to. H-honeydew,” she answered, taking the stool he offered. She balanced the lyre on her lap. Even the air seemed tense around Glavenor, as if he commanded that space as well.
“I’ll have a touch of the same, Madam Quilt,” Glavenor said.
“Not the Dwarrow?” Mrs Quilt asked. Hopeful for a higher price, if Tabitha guessed correctly.
“It has a kick it didn’t have in the old days. I prefer to keep my thoughts whole.”
Glavenor took the glasses, and offered Tabitha one. “I wish to apologise, for being harsh, earlier. You are a beautiful young woman. I did not recognise you for the girl I last saw here.”
His aura of strength pressed against her. He smelled of leather and steel, and his tightly-bound hair glistened darkly against the light.
He eroded her composure more with every flattering comment. She had to turn the conversation. “What happened to the Shadowcaster, Swordmaster Glavenor?”
“Please, call me Garyll. You’ll wear your sweet voice out if you use my title every time we speak.”
She gave a little laugh, and looked away from his steady gaze, pretending to note the next performer begin on the stage. Garyll. She savoured the word, but couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. The Swordmaster must have been young when he earned the title; he was still younger than many in his service, yet he was at least fifteen years Tabitha’s senior. He was a grown man.
He was still watching her. “We scoured the village,” he said, keeping his voice low, “but I believe the Shadowcaster has fled. A horse was stolen from Hemsen’s stable. With the traffic of the contest, it was impossible to track him in the dark further than the High Way. I’ll send a patrol out in the morning, but for now the men are on guard. Which is why I am here, to see the gathering is safe.”
He would make sleeping in a bear’s den seem safe, were he near. He bristled with martial alertness, even while he sipped at his wine and watched her.
“You play the lyre very well,” he said.
Her answer came out in a rush. “It’s my mother’s old lyre, the first one she had, but she’s got another one carved by the crafter in Stormhaven which plays a deeper tune than mine, and has twice as many strings, so it gives a richer music, but it’s more difficult to play, and I’m not good enough to pluck the deep-lyre and sing at the same time, so this one serves me best.” She stopped suddenly, realising how much she had said in only one breath. Saying the first thing which came to mind was a terrible idea.
She turned the lyre in her hands, and fiddled with the end of the taut strings. I’ll bite my tongue, if I have to.
“I’ve never met a woman who could stop six men drinking, all at once,” he said, with an earnest expression.
When she realised he was teasing her, she glowered in mock anger.
“No, really, it was wonderful piece of singing,” he said, raising his hands as if to defend himself. He smiled. “You’re good. You’re very good.”
“Thank you.” She turned quickly away before he could see how wide her smile was.
He’s just being polite, stop getting all worked up about his eyes.
And yet his compliments seemed genuine, unlike the flattery she had learned to ignore from those shifty-eyed patrons who stayed too late.
A youth from Brimstone was singing on the stage, the last of the contestants. He couldn’t hide all of his nervousness from his voice, but his lute-work was brilliant. The judges would have a hard time choosing, this year. She hoped she was one of the three who’d have a chance to travel to Stormhaven at Yearsend, to play before the King.
She turned to face Glavenor again. “Is Stormhaven really roofed in gold?” she asked. She regretted the vapid words as they fell from her lips. He smiled, and didn’t tease her ignorance.
“In a manner of speaking. A few roofs in the Upper Quadrant have gilt capping. Of course there’s the Palace, and the very tops of the battlements too, but for the most part it’s stone, and the ancient stonewood. In the mornings, when the mist from the lake is thin, the gold catches the sun, and the glow fills the city. For that time, Stormhaven is the most beautiful place in all of Eyri. You can feel the history under your feet, you can feel the strength of the city walls, the order that binds all of Eyri together.”
“I hope to travel there, some day,” she said, wistful. Garyll’s description had made her want to pack for the King’s Isle that night.
“You’ll surely sing in the King’s Challenge this year.”
“I have to be judged worthy.”
“And so you will. You have the most beautiful voice,” he said, a glint to his eye.
She took a breath.
“Thank you, Garyll.”
It sent a thrill up her spine. Garyll. She had called him by his first name, and he didn’t seem to mind. The Swordmaster of Eyri, talking to her, and she had called him Garyll.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been in Stormhaven myself,” he admitted. “Too much unrest, elsewhere. Lone farms. Lightgifters in trouble.”
“Around Fendwarrow?”
He nodded, and spread his hands. He had strong hands. “There is always good in the bad, and bad in the good, but in that village, things are rather darker than most. It’s as if the wildness comes with the Black River, and seeps into everything. We have to transfer the Swords in that station every year. There is more work for a Sword trying to uphold the law in that small village than there is in the entire city of Stormhaven.”
He pushed an empty glass across the bar, then rose.
“Which
reminds me I’d best patrol again, before I become entranced by your smile. All seems well here. It may not be so elsewhere.”
Lone farms and Lightgifters. Her parents stayed on the farm. Her mother was a Lightgifter. A nasty little worry crept up her back.
“Miss Serannon, I enjoyed your company. My apologies again, for the misunderstanding.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. The gesture was acceptably polite, yet it sent shivers up her arm. “Good night,” he added, letting her hand slip from his. When she only nodded, he bowed, and made his way to the door.
Tabitha couldn’t make her tongue work. This time, it had nothing to do with the strange magic of the Shadowcaster.
“Thank you, and good night too,” she said, at last, to his retreating back. Too late, but maybe he had heard her.
“You can call me Tabitha,” she whispered.
But the door to the common-room swung open, and the Swordmaster was gone. Master Glavenor. Garyll.
She became aware of the clamour of the inn again. The Tooth would not empty for a while yet, the judges were still deliberating, and Lyndall was weaving through the crowd with a tray held high.
Mrs Quilt leant on the bar beside Tabitha.
“Now that’s a man we could afford to see far more of around these parts,” she said.
“Do you think he’ll stay for long?”
Mrs Quilt harrumphed. “A man like the Swordmaster travels all the time. Don’t you get your heart set on him, you hear? He’ll be off before the week is out, and never come back for a year. That’s his duty, as Swordmaster of Eyri. He must go everywhere, see everything. He is the hand of justice, and he is needed elsewhere than in this sleepy hollow.”
“Would one see more of him in Stormhaven?” said Tabitha, shifting on her stool to face the matronly innkeeper.
Mrs Quilt puckered her lips. “Forget him, girl. He was just being polite with you. Chasing him will give you nothing but a sore heart.”
Tabitha nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself; Mrs Quilt was mad. You did not forget a man like Garyll Glavenor.
A bell rang from the stage, on and on, until the noise of the crowd subsided, and the judges of the singing contest could be heard. Each of the elders had their say about the wonderful quality of the singing, the fresh new talent, the importance of such events, and thanked the people for their support. The discourses only served to wind her nervousness as taut as a lyre string. At last, the spry old lady from Llury stood to the fore, to pronounce the result.
“Lyndall Quilt from First Light, Peter Prookle from Cellarspring, and Tabitha Serannon. Congratulations, you are selected for the King’s Challenge.”
Applause filled the common-room like the sound of heavy rain. Lyndall emerged from the crowd, and took her hand as Tabitha joined her to approach the stage. Tears fell bright on Lyndall’s cheeks, but her smile was enormous. When they accepted their tokens from the senior judge, the crowd whistled, hooted, and stomped on the floor. The gilded disc suspended on Tabitha’s ribbon had the King’s seal stamped in the centre of the cross. The King’s seal.
She couldn’t wait to show her mother. Trisha Serannon would be so proud. Sunday evening suddenly seemed a long time in the future, and the farm at Phantom Acres a long way away.
2. THE RIDDLER
“A life that is free, isn’t easy,
and an easy life isn’t free.”—Zarost
Twardy Zarost slipped from the crowd. A cold and blusterous night lay beyond the door, but the delivery of Dwarrow wine shouldn’t wait. It was a good time to travel, a good night. The rain would pelter, thieves would shelter, and Trouble would stay in bed. A quick journey then, before the wrath of the storm. He ducked around the corner of the inn and headed for the stable.
The singing contest had been a treat, and the clear-eyed brunette the very cherry on top. She could go far if the right hands guided her—he decided that he would watch the Lightgifter’s daughter. But tonight he could not get involved, not with the Swordmaster so near. Maybe another time.
When the girl had showered Great Glavenor with glass, Zarost hadn’t been able to contain his laughter. If the commotion and applause hadn’t been so very thunderous, he would have been picked out as a mocker. A better prank he couldn’t have played on the Swordmaster, had he planned it himself.
His horse, Horse, was reluctant to leave her warm stall. A handful of sweet barley convinced her that Twardy Zarost was a good man, even if a little tricky. He paid the stable-hand a full silver for guarding the valuable cargo, and turned the loaded cart northwards upon the road.
They soon bounced over the last of the cobbles, and joined the smooth-packed earth of the High Way. Better, he thought. The wine wouldn’t be jostled any more. He looked ahead, to where the trees tilted over the road as if they wanted to walk upon it themselves but couldn’t get their roots to move. The forest sighed in anticipation of the coming storm. Zarost listened carefully to the symphony of hums, moans, creaks and rustles as they passed through the trees.
His favourite part of Eyri’s Great Forest, this oft-bypassed tract, where the strangle-oaks threw their sheltering arms over the road, and the wind could howl over the canopy above. The night was darker than a shaftful of Shadowcasters, but it was a good night nonetheless.
Horse trusted that he was guiding her, and he trusted that Horse would follow the easy trail all on her own. He kept his pipe glowing as long as he could, even when the rain came to dance upon his hat.
They reached the ramshackle cluster of planks that called itself Brimstone just as the snow began to fall. The village innkeeper was none too pleased with being woken in the small hours, but when he recognised the brand on the wine barrels, he led the Riddler to his best rooms.
Twardy Zarost turned in for the day.
* * *
The weather improved the following night. After reaching Llury and concluding his trade there, Twardy Zarost decided to push on again. The Dwarrow wine had caused a disagreement with the burly Llurian loggers about someone’s paternity. That convinced him to ride with the dawn, before his remaining barrels were holed, or stolen. When he was clear of the town, he dozed, while Horse followed the descending trail. Morning became afternoon, all on its own.
The traffic increased after the junction to Tarbarn, as wagoneers bound for the High Way passed by. A cart loaded with vegetables and greens from Hillow, a loud metal-peddlar from Chink or Respite, a family of potters with their whares, probably from Kironkiln. A group of riders who parted for him, a patrol of Swords who did not. Zarost tipped his hat at every one, but didn’t stop to talk.
His load was very much lighter than when he’d set out from Fendwarrow, and his purse was as fat as a feast-day hog. Sad that it was not his money. Neither was it his wine; but at least being a wagoneer took him away from Ravenscroft for a week or three. He had been too long in that dark hole, so long that he was losing faith in his own wise words. Yet every time when he completed his wagon-run, it was the same. He returned to Ravenscroft, to cast riddles in the shadows, wasted riddles for an unlikely contender. Nonetheless, it was a duty he couldn’t shirk.
“If I don’t stir for another year, I’ll go completely mad,” he announced to the mare.
Horse rolled an eye at him, as if to suggest that it was already too late, and continued drawing the cart at a plod down the trail to Stormsford. Zarost knew the mare understood more than she should. He considered flicking her rump to reward her for her cheekiness.
They came upon a broad puddle, where Horse dropped her head and snorted briefly at the water. The cart wheels sloshed through the broken reflections. The nearby willows dripped, the air was a forest of standing vapours above the sweep of the Storms River. What sunlight did touch Eyri, glistened on the jagged rim of high mountains, making them appear all the more like teeth, protecting or ensnaring the green land they contained. The bare trees away from the river cast dappled patterns across the road.
Light and Dark, dark and light. Twardy Zarost sc
ratched his beard.
Twenty years, and still no significant change in the magic of Eyri.
The paths to wizardry were many, and yet here in Eyri, the paths seemed to go round and round, and never led anywhere. He supposed it was the council’s own fault. The order which the Gyre of Wizards had created within this realm was too pure, the shield was too thick. Eyri was safe from the outside, but equally, nothing could peck the egg open from within. And so, the Order remained untainted and sterile, and the true purpose of the talisman remained undiscovered.
Horse sauntered under a tree, and a low branch tipped the hat from Twardy’s head. He caught it behind his back, then flicked it up. The stripes of the racoon pelt caught the sunlight as the hat spun tip over brim. It landed atop his wiry mop. He crammed it down. The hat should stay there for another month, now that it was aired. He twitched Horse’s rump for the prank this time, and she whinnied, delighted with herself.
Zarost returned to his ruminations.
The talisman was being hoarded by the Darkmaster, and so the development of magic had stagnated in Eyri. The Ring should have moved on, years ago, to someone who had more potential. Although Zarost was tempted to interfere, he knew that the course of the Ring should not be meddled with—it would only succeed under the strictest conditions of fairness. There might be other rings which could enslave their bearers, but the talisman which the Darkmaster held was made for a wiser purpose. The path it followed could not be dictated. His oath to the Gyre of Wizards bound him tighter to that requirement than the rims to the cart wheels.
Round and round, going nowhere.
The Ring was supposed to be a catalyst, and yet the essence of magic was so settled, in this realm.
“A touch of Chaos, a lick of fire from Ametheus, that’s what Eyri needs,” he told Horse. The Gyre would make him chew soap, for a comment like that. He pressed his lips firmly together, but grinned all the same.
An old reflex made him turn his eyes skyward. The grin slipped from his face. He reined Horse to an abrupt halt, and stared at the impossibility—a terrible falling star, high above. He was inside the Shield, he was safe, he reminded himself. It could not be; his idle words could not have summoned that kind of magic. The name of the Sorcerer held no power here.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 3