The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong)

by Greg Hamerton

  Kirjath had expected the fall. He jumped forward to swing a heavy boot against the man’s temple, then stamped him to the floor and stood across his shoulders. The woman screamed again. Soon, my lovely, soon. He guided a small amount of the Dark essence into the man’s ears.

  “Sleep,” he whispered, though it was probably unnecessary. The man wouldn’t wake for many hours. He might not wake at all.

  “Shut up, or you’ll be raped,” he shouted at the screams. They stopped, and he heard only gasping breaths. Good, she had much fear in her. Let her hope that she could win her freedom by complying. The despair would be great when she learned her mistake.

  “I’m looking for a ring, a talisman, a good-luck charm, shall we say,” he announced. Kirjath stepped over the fallen man, and walked deeper into the darkened house. He could smell the bedroom, and the sweet stench of fear coming from the woman within it.

  “It is a clear glass ring, a simple circle, but it will bring a terrible fate to anyone who holds onto it. The ring belongs to the Darkmaster.” He paused for a moment. The Master hadn’t told them what the ring was for, in truth. He wondered what could make such a little thing so valuable. He approached the sound of the swallowed tears. The woman sat upright in her bed, the sheets clutched tight against her chin. He allowed a tendril of the Dark essence to brush her wet cheek. He knew how cold that touch could be.

  “Do you have it?”

  The woman was shivering wildly, and made only strangled sounds. Fear poured off her like a mist of wild musk.

  “Don’t lie now, I can hear the tone of a lie.”

  That trick had been the first lesson in his apprenticeship. Give them a large enough taste of fear, and people will do whatever you want, believe that you mean whatever you say. He had no way to tell a truth from a lie, he wasn’t a truthsayer, but she would never guess it, because she feared the possibility too much. He sent the essence curling around the back of her neck.

  “We haven’t got it,” the woman whispered. “I promise, oh my lord I promise, we haven’t got the ring, any clear thing. Nothing! Please, we have nothing!”

  “Good,” said Kirjath, tightening his web of Dark essence around her body, guiding the motes over her thighs, between her breasts, up to her head. “Lord, eh?”

  “Here, might you have a better taste of who I am,” he breathed in her ear as he completed the spell pattern of Fear. His tongue flicked over her lobe. She shook with the terror of his presence, paralysed, unable to escape. The Darkmaster had thought to deny him his pleasures. It was time to take them back.

  4. THE MESSENGER

  “Bad news travels faster than good.”—Zarost

  Flakes of an obstinate winter blew past the window. Tabitha was glad for the weather—it gave her good reason to curl up on a fireside chair, and play to her heart’s content. It was the second day since the starburst, and the dream-song still haunted her. She plucked the basic melody from her lyre. The notes were evocative, invigorating, and best played with a light, fast touch, as she recalled it from the dream. Yet when she tried to sing the words, she lost the delicate thread of music, and the lyrics which had seemed to be on the tip of her tongue were gone. She couldn’t find the powerful voice she had engaged in the dream. The best she could produce was a frustrated hum.

  “Still struggling, love?” Her mother eyed her over the top of her loom, her shuttle paused in mid-air.

  “I think I can hear the words, but when I try to sing them, they scatter.”

  “Give it time, the song will come,” Trisha said gently, resuming her weaving. “It’s hard to create something new. That melody—be careful with it.”

  “Mother?”

  The shuttle wove backwards and forwards, a nimble dancer amongst the coloured threads, binding them tight with its chosen pattern.

  “I recognise something in the music. I—played with something similar, a long time ago. The lyrics were like echoes of a distant voice.”

  That was exactly what it was like—there was a voice, singing the song, and she caught only the echoes of its sound, never clear enough to mimic. But even when she wasn’t trying to recall it, the song was still there, like a theme to every moment of the day.

  “Promise me something, Tee. Think about the words before you sing them, consider their meaning if they come to you. I cannot stop you discovering things, but a song can sometimes be more than it seems.”

  “S-sure. I promise.”

  Trisha didn’t look up from the loom again, but Tabitha knew that her mother’s attention wasn’t given solely to her weaving. Tabitha repeated the instrumental, and searched for those words she had sung in her dream, those words which had resonated through the stars. But her mother’s caution made her critical of every thought, and the lyrics were driven further from her reach than ever before. She wondered what could be wrong with such a beautiful song.

  She gazed out the window and played the tune again. Her eyes followed the movement of the scudding clouds. The forest of alders on the hill swayed as if shaken by a giant’s hands. Tabitha’s father hauled wood to the shed, his cowl raised against the weather. Two men stopped him halfway across the yard. Tabitha’s fingers froze on the lyre strings.

  “There are some Swords with Dad.” She jumped to her feet. Not just Swords. The one man was a Sword, true. The other man was Garyll Glavenor, Swordmaster of Eyri. She pressed her nose to the window.

  “Whatever can they want?” Tabitha’s voice misted against the glass. She wiped it away, and the Swordmaster waved back. Glavenor addressed her father. Hank Serannon nodded, and the three men approached the homestead. The Swordmaster’s eye caught Tabitha before she left the window.

  Heavens, he’s seen me, I have nowhere to hide.

  Her heart beat furiously. She caught herself.

  Why should I need to hide?

  She was wearing the plainest brown dress, and an oversized woolen jersey. There was nothing to do about it. She set her shoulders, and hoped her best smile would distract him from her simple garb. She turned the handle, and the three men came in with a gust of weather. Glavenor seemed to fill the whole house as soon as he entered.

  Her father offered introductions. “Trisha, you know Sword Ayche from First Light, and Swordmaster Glavenor. Glavenor, my wife Trisha, and my daughter Tabitha.”

  “I think we all know each other, but I’m pleased to be introduced to such fine women again,” Garyll said. He bowed low, including both Tabitha and her mother in his smile when he straightened. “I had the pleasure of hearing Tabitha sing, and hope to be at the King’s Challenge to hear her again. You have raised an exceptional daughter.”

  Glavenor faced Trisha, but Tabitha could feel the warmth of his attention against her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Swordmaster,” said her mother, “but most of what Tabitha is, is due to her own efforts. Come, there’s no need for gallantry, your haste is plain. How can we help you?”

  “Forgive my urgency, but a rider came last night from Fendwarrow. The Shadowcasters passed through the village like a scourge, and too many folk witnessed their foul deeds to pass it off as a wild rumour. The rider saw things himself, and he is a Sword whose word I trust. His captain forbade him to ride, yet he rode nonetheless. He fears to return to Fendwarrow.”

  Somehow, the chill air from outside crept into the room, for an icy hand crept up Tabitha’s back. The Shadowcaster. Eyes like grey slate.

  “This is bad news, Swordmaster,” said Hank, “but why do you bring it to our farm? What are we to do?”

  “No threat intended, Mister Serannon. I’ll be gone in a moment, and you can surely guess where I’m going, but first I wanted to ask your wife’s assistance in sending a message.”

  “A Courier?” Trisha asked.

  Garyll nodded. “Could you send word to the Dovecote?”

  “What would you have me say?”

  “I have searched Fendwarrow myself, and found nothing before. Yet this news is too extreme to ignore, told by one who has noth
ing to gain in the telling. I must find where these Shadowcasters dwell, how they hide. If I am to be successful, I believe I need the assistance of the Lightgifters.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Forthwith.”

  “You’ll need the Gifters in Fendwarrow by tomorrow evening then?”

  Glavenor considered, then shook his head. “Morning.”

  It would be a hard ride indeed, what with the foul weather and treacherous road.

  “How many?” Trisha asked.

  “Five should suffice. I don’t need a whole host, I just need assistance to find what I am not seeing. My men will make the arrests.”

  “I’ll do it at once,” said Trisha. She backed away from them a few paces. Sprites of Light essence filtered down from the ceiling, drawn to Trisha’s hand by her summoning. She touched the white orb at her throat in benediction, then whispered her spell to the Light essence.

  The Light swirled closer to her hands, the delicate filaments thickened as more essence joined. A bright shape formed in Trisha’s hand, and grew into the complex pattern of the Courier. Trisha was a practised Gifter—the form of the bird was nearly perfect. The white feathers glistened, the head bobbed with curiosity as it searched for guidance. She spoke gently into the dove’s ear.

  “Find the Rector at the Dovecote in Levin, and tell him this: the Swordmaster needs five Gifters to be in Fendwarrow in the morning, to help in the search for Shadowcasters.”

  She carried the dove to the door, and lofted it into the morning air.

  “Go, deliver your message to Rector Shamgar.”

  With an eager flutter of wings, the white dove shot away.

  Tabitha wished it could have been her hand that had sent the Courier skyward; she wished she could have helped Garyll in the way her mother had. But she was not yet a Lightgifter. She might never be—the Gifters might not even choose her to be an apprentice at Yearsend.

  “Can I offer you both a cup of broth before you go?” she asked the men. Her mother gave her an approving glance.

  “Certainly!” Garyll said, his smile broad. “If it’s no trouble, that is. We must only stay a moment.”

  “No trouble!” said Tabitha gaily, scampering for the kitchen.

  “We have the pot bubbling for the noonday meal,” she heard her mother say behind her. “It’s just a scoop and a scrape.”

  Tabitha lifted two heavy mugs from their hooks.

  “What kind of crimes are we talking about here,” enquired Trisha in a hushed voice. Tabitha guessed they thought her beyond earshot.

  “These—Shadowcasters,” Garyll answered, “went through the town and broke into every house. They searched for something, though no one knew exactly what it was. Some talisman, a glass ring of sorts. They tortured the folk with their Dark magic. It was as if a madness possessed them.”

  Her father muttered something she couldn’t quite make out.

  “That was not the worst of it. In one house, a man was beaten almost to death,” Garyll added, his voice dropping to a whisper. If Tabitha had not hastily replaced the lid on the bubbling pot, she would have missed the final words. “His wife was raped.”

  Her hand froze on the handle. Her mother’s voice was strained and slow. “Do you know who that was? Did the rider say who’s house it was?”

  Glavenor was silent, but Sword Ayche filled in for him. “The Trench house, he said.” Tabitha lost her grip on the mugs and they crashed and broke upon the pot. In the next room, her mother stifled a cry. Lillian Trench was Tabitha’s aunt, her mother’s sister.

  Tabitha burst into the room. Garyll was glaring at the other soldier, the Sword was looking at the floor, and Hank was holding Trisha in his arms. Tabitha joined her parents’ embrace. Her mother’s tears were fierce.

  “Daran will need healing,” her mother said, pulling suddenly away and wiping her face. “Oh Lillian! what have you done to deserve this?” She covered her mouth with shaking hands, then clenched them into fists.

  “Can I ride with you, Glavenor? I must be at my sister’s side.”

  Garyll, for once, appeared to be at a loss for words. He looked from Hank to Trisha and back. His jaw worked beneath tight lips.

  Trisha whirled, and strode to the stairs at the back of the room. Hank followed her from the room, his stride angry. A door slammed.

  Although her parent’s bedroom was on the upper floor, the sound carried through the wooden boards. Hank’s raised voice was muffled.

  “You cannot go alone!”

  The answer was too quiet to discern.

  “How can I leave the farm?” came her father’s distorted question. “Winterborn will have my neck. You know how he is these days.”

  Her mother’s answer was too soft to hear.

  “How do you know you’ll be safe?”

  Trisha’s response was muffled.

  “I know it’s your duty as a Gifter. But you’re still my wife! I don’t want you in danger!”

  The three of them stood in the main room, unsure of what to say. Glavenor looked angry, Sword Ayche looked spare, and Tabitha felt more awkward than ever. Her parents continued to argue upstairs, their voices lowered now, sounding like the buzzing of angry bees.

  “Would you show me the farm a little?” Garyll asked her.

  Tabitha gratefully led them from the room. The day was cold outside, but she didn’t mind. They walked in silence across the yard, past the Sword’s tethered horses, toward the chicken-run and pastures. It was awkward, but far less awkward than standing in the homestead.

  “She’ll come with you,” Tabitha said, at length.

  “How can you be sure?” Glavenor replied.

  “She’ll get her way, because it is a matter of a Lightgifter’s duty. My father respects her pledge. I think it’s why she loves him so much.”

  Tabitha slowed her steps.

  “How can she travel to Fendwarrow? You only have the two horses.”

  Garyll was quick to answer, and certain in his words. “She has helped me, so I shall return the aid. I shall run, until I tire,” he said.

    

  “Be careful, my love,” said Hank, his face stern. And to Glavenor, “Look after her, Swordmaster. Look after her with your life.”

  It was as much a warning as a request, Tabitha realised, but Glavenor clasped her father’s hand and held his eye. “You have my word, Hank Serannon. Trisha shall not come to harm in Fendwarrow.”

  Hank grunted, and released the Swordmaster from the pledging handshake. Garyll gave Tabitha one long, final look, then turned and urged the others to follow him from the yard. Trisha was surrounded by a halo of sprites. Some of the Light essence of Phantom Acres was departing with her. It was of no use to those who stayed behind, and the need in Fendwarrow would be great.

  Glavenor ran at a steady lope, ahead of the trotting horses. His sword and armour had been strapped to the packs, and he moved with an easy rhythm.

  “How far do you think he can run like that?” Tabitha asked her father.

  “I’d bet on the horses tiring before he does.”

  She hoped he was right, that Garyll was that strong. The Swordmaster of Eyri was the only shield her mother would have from the Dark in Fendwarrow. The further they passed from sight, the greater her dread became.

  “Come, help me stack the wood,” Hank said, gruffly. “It’ll do no good to dwell on the maybes.”

    

  Ashley Logán sat in a high alcove in the west wall of the Dovecote, and considered the steep terraces of Levin below. The city clustered onto the descending slope, looking like a mongrel’s coat brushed the wrong way. Sharply-pointed roofs of red-and-grey slate thrust upwards in clumps from amongst the lower districts, and even the white walls of lightning-quartz had been finished with irregular heights, so that Levin seemed to be all the more rumpled where the slope eased beside the Amberlake, far below.

  He pressed his back against the curve of the high stone balcony
.

  It was his private place, the one part of the Dovecote where he could escape the demands of training and the watchful eyes of his mentors. The alcove had become an architectural appendage—the door at his back had long ago been reduced to a narrow, glassless window by some mason’s hand. The chamber within was dark and disused. The only access to Ashley’s alcove was to climb up the patterns of the Dovecote’s western wall. He was hidden from those who might walk past below.

  He spun the Light essence idly through his fingers, playing with the shapes he could create. A ball of sprites, a pool, a spiral.

  A Courier dove winged out of the west, high over the Amberlake. It cut a direct path to the Dovecote. He followed its flight. The bird circled the Dovecote’s tower, then passed out of sight at Ashley’s level, aiming for where he knew the rooms of Rector Shamgar to be.

  It was rare for a message to be sent to the Cote, they usually went from the Cote. Very few displaced Gifters could spare sprites on messengers. It had to be something important. No doubt they would be told of it soon.

  But there was no announcement, that day. The messenger from the west went silently into the depths of the Dovecote.

  * * *

  The Darkmaster walked the length of Fendwarrow’s main street. The street was empty. Fendwarrens learned their lessons well—even the Swords were contained in their barracks, since his ‘chat’ with their captain. His coercive spell was tentative, but it worked well enough on all the tinpots, for they had been in Fendwarrow a long time since the last changing of the guard. He would use their weakness to its full potential. For now, it meant moving unchallenged through the village, searching for the damned Ring.

  One tall Shadowcaster was at his side—the most arrogant of his underlings, Kirjath Arkell. Cruel pride flashed in his yellowed eyes. His hunger for power had begun to bunch his shoulders, he walked like a vulture searching for prey. Arkell probably thought that the Darkmaster favoured him. The fool. It was because he could not be trusted that the Darkmaster had excluded him from the retreat to Ravenscroft. With the help of the jurrum, it would not be long before Kirjath reached for things beyond his ability to control. Such ambition made him a useful tool, to retrieve what had been lost.