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

by Greg Hamerton

  They hadn’t seen the other Gifters again after they had ridden ahead.

  “What do you think happened to Rosreece and Hosanna, Father Keegan?”

  Keegan ignored the question, taking a deep draught from his tankard instead, then closing his eyes.

  “Damned cub won’t be quiet,” thought Keegan. “Suppose I was full of questions until I was ordained.”

  Ashley gritted his teeth. Cub? But Keegan hadn’t spoken the word, and he couldn’t challenge it. Ashley pressed his hands to his temples. He wished he could find some control over the intrusive voices in his mind. Willing them away didn’t seem to work when he was tired. It was possible he was just having hallucinations.

  Sister Grace was savouring her apple pie and seemed to be too tired to take an interest.

  Keegan answered at last. “They might be riding still, but they’ll not yet be at Brimstone.”

  “More likely they’ve halted and are shameless in the forest. Hosanna, naked in a saddle, feet in the stirrups.”

  Ashley concealed his burning embarrassment by dropping his face and pretending to scratch at an itching forehead. Stars above! He hadn’t expected such a carnal thought to come from an ordained Lightgifter. Sister Grace gave him a quick, puzzled glance when he looked up.

  “What happens to Gifters if they’re caught—together?” he asked.

  Grace looked greatly surprised, but it was Father Keegan’s reaction he wanted to see. He wanted to know if he had heard the Father’s thoughts correctly.

  “Where does that question come from?” Keegan growled.

  Out of your mind, thought Ashley, but he bit his tongue. It didn’t prove anything, he decided. He still didn’t know for sure, and he couldn’t risk asking outright.

  “Gifters can marry, Ashley,” said Grace, “but they go right out of the Dovecote.” She gave a short, flat whistle. “The sanctity of the Light must be pure around the Source, and that means chastity, honesty, and dedication.”

  “Hah!” said Keegan, but when they both turned to him for explanation, he buried his beard in his tankard. “If the Sister only knew how empty the Cote would be,” Keegan thought.

  Ashley stifled a laugh; Grace was regarding him with a level gaze, as if he’d been the one entertaining fantasies, not Keegan. He wasn’t sure that he was entirely blameless, now that her eyes were on him. He seized at the first question he could bring to mind.

  “Hosanna’s vision,” he stammered, “when the Shadowcaster fights the Gifter, and the Morgloth appears. Is that—it’s surely a metaphor for something bad? Not a real Morgloth, not a real demon.”

  Sister Grace’s level gaze wavered. “We can’t be sure, Ashley. Too little study has been done on vision-casting, and she is the only one with the gift at present. She sees—shapes and patterns, a short glimpse of events.”

  Father Keegan wiped the foam from his beard with the back of his hand. “There must have been an evil beast in the world to give birth to the legend of the Morgloth, but the tale has grown horns and teeth over the years. I doubt we’ll ever see its like.”

  “But if Hosanna has seen true, then it will come again,” Grace asserted. Her fatalism was alarming.

  “How would we fight a Morgloth?” Ashley asked.

  “There is nothing you could do,” said Keegan, looking suddenly bereft. “It would gobble you up, boots and all.” Behind his mask of mock sincerity, he thought, “The cub is so gullible he could be sold a three-legged horse.”

  “Keegan!” Sister Grace scolded, “Stop taunting the young man. You know Eyri wouldn’t be entirely defenceless against a Morgloth. If the legends are correct, the threat of the Morgloth was met, and cleared.”

  “That’s just a legend,” Keegan retorted with a laugh. “You’re using one legend to defeat another.”

  “How were the Morgloth defeated?” Ashley asked.

  Grace ignored Keegan’s continued laughter. “The Book of Ages says The First Swordmaster of Eyri stood before the horde, and they were petrified by his blade, and he slew them as they stood, until all lay defeated before him, or returned to that hell from whence they came.”

  “That’s so typical of the lay of legends,” scoffed Keegan. “Beasts and heroes, gods and wizards, all utterly implausible.”

  “But why did the Rector send us?” Ashley asked. “If it’s so implausible, he wouldn’t waste our time and sprites on this quest.”

  Keegan gave him a pitying smile. “You really do believe this ruse, don’t you both? It was just a way for the lovers to skip the stifling strictures of the Dovecote. There’s no Morgloth.”

  “You can’t be sure, Keegan,” Sister Grace objected.

  Keegan shook his head. “We are here because the Rector had to answer such a blatant interruption without losing face. Rosreece stood up to the Rector as well, and marked himself for retribution, but that was obviously their plan from the start.”

  Something about Father Keegan’s logic didn’t add up. Hosanna. She wouldn’t have falsified her vision just to earn her abscence from the Dovecote. She was always so impeccable, yet Father Keegan blithely assumed that lust had overpowered her reason.

  Then again, Ashley hadn’t guessed that Hosanna even had a lover. After the way Rosreece had compelled her to join his lead, Ashley’s ignorance was plain. Keegan was wiser in the ways of desire.

  “And us? What are we doing on the quest?”

  “As for Sister Grace, the Rector feels threatened by her talent, for it surpasses his. So the Rector uses his prerogative whenever he can to send her away. And you—doubtless you know what it is you have done to deserve his petty anger.”

  The Hall. I breached the sanctity of the Hall at night.

  “We’re on a mission for fools,” Keegan concluded, his brow gathering. “Morgloth! When we reach First Light, we’ll find only the laughter of the ones we come to warn.”

  Sister Grace put a gentling hand on Keegan’s fist. “Don’t rile against our fate, Keegan. We serve the Light, not the one who commands us. I still believe there is more to Hosanna’s vision than you credit.”

  “Thank you, Grace. Ah, I see there’s no convincing either of you. If you wish to chase Morgloths at dawn, we’ll need to be strong. I’ve hired a fresh horse for Ashley from the Inn, we shall make good speed.” He rose from his chair. “For one, I’d like to test if the beds are as good as the meals here.”

  As they retired from the dining room, Ashley caught the wisp of a curse from Keegan, though it went unspoken.

  “Blast and set fire to it! I must keep an empty bed, yet those ahead of us get away with it. I should accept the offer in Fendwarrow. Ah, but that would be good!”

  Ashley promised himself he wouldn’t filch another thought. Ever. Some things were not meant to be known. He had no right to learn of Keegan’s fantasies.

  But that night he dreamt of a sultry seductress named Gabrielle, a woman with a wild hunger in her eyes, her voice husky with promise, her dark hair tumbling over a black silk gown that clung to her body wherever she moved. He didn’t want the dream to end.

  He couldn’t be sure it was entirely his own dream.

  10. WINE

  “To all wines is added a taste of mischief.”—Zarost

  Dawn broke crisply over the eastern horizon. Sunlight lanced across the basin of Eyri, and struck the high cliffs of Fynn’s Tooth on the western rim. Clear ice and snow glared, the skirt of talus became a shattered grey, and the spears of a thousand trees cast long shadows against its flanks. The sun was punctured upon the jagged maw of the Zunskar Mountains; its bright assault spilled into Eyri.

  The day always began with the breaking of the night, Kirjath decided. He pulled his smarting eye back from the hole in the wall. The welcome gloom of the stable returned.

  The night had passed all too quickly. He had located the girl, yet the presence of the soldiers had frustrated every attempt at entry. On any other night, they would have presented no barrier. But his supply of essence was badly depleted. And h
e was hurt. He would not admit that he was also very weak.

  His burns plagued him. They were so bad he wanted to scream and never cease. The continuous strain grated on his nerves. Hour by hour, he had bled energy from the Dark essence, depleted the supply that he had brought from Fendwarrow. Hour by hour, he had consumed the mana. Motes flickered over his skin like feasting flies, numbing the pain to a dull ache. His left hand had begun to ooze during the night, adding a sickly-sweet smell to the other aromas. He kept the motes concentrated on his head, wearing them as a thick crown, chanting softly to bind them to his body.

  There were no new motes in First Light; none had ever been turned this far west. He had tried to summon more Dark from Ravenscroft, but the task surpassed his ability. And for all his knowledge of spell-casting, he could effect no healing; only a Freeze to numb the agony, to contain the damage. It was an abuse to his body he knew he couldn’t sustain. He had to find a healer. A poultice or a balm, from a herbalist or mender. Not a Lightgifter. Never a Lightgifter. He spat a chewed lump of jurrum into the straw.

  He was on borrowed time. He had ignored the Master’s summoning. He needed results if he was to avoid the retribution. The girl and the Ring, before healing. But with the Swords all around, he had to wait for a gap in the defence. He couldn’t risk using the beast in his weakened state. The Morgloth’s rebellion was only too fresh in his memory. No, the Morgloth was a last resort. It eased his frustration somewhat, knowing that he had the means to kill them all. He could be patient.

  He smothered a hacking cough with his robe. The tattered garment reeked of smoke. He pushed his eye up against the knot-hole again. There was some activity outside the inn.

  A small man sat in a cart, a striped hat perched on his head. Two uniformed Swords loaded a heavy barrel of wine onto the cart. A wagoneer, then. He looked vaguely familiar. Strange for a full barrel to leave the inn, but Kirjath supposed it had been traded at a profit to someone in desperate need. Especially if it were Dwarrow-wine. Folk soon acquired a taste that would be sated by no other. There would be a small amount of Dark essence in the wine. For a brief moment Kirjath considered summoning the motes to his own hand. He would have to breach the barrel to do that, and expose himself in the process. Best he leave it be.

  Two more Swords rode into view, leading extra mounts with them. They halted at the door to the inn, beside the three men already there. One of the footmen knocked on the door of the Tooth-and-Tale, and stood back.

  The door opened to reveal a large woman.

  One of the Sword greeted her in a loud voice that carried on the wind.

  “Morning, Madam Quilt. We have come to collect the Serannon girl. She is to come with us on a search for the Shadowcaster. We have word that he was seen on the north road.”

  The innkeeper acquired a stony look.

  “How dare you suggest Tabitha is to ride? With all she’s been through, and a dangerous killer loose, whom you have failed to bring to justice? The girl needs rest, and safety!”

  “She is the only one to have seen this Shadowcaster. We need her to identify the man.”

  “Whoever heard of such a thing! She can identify him when you drag him back here on his ear. She does not leave that room.” Kirjath didn’t miss where she pointed; the last shuttered window of the inn frontage.

  “I can’t station men here and do the search,” the Sword objected. “She’ll be safer with us.”

  The innkeeper folded her arms across her heavy bosom. “I shall protect her here! Nobody enters my Inn against my will!”

  The wagoneer shook his head. “Little good such arrogance did her parents, and little good it will do for you. The Shadowcaster is dangerous. He could be in the Inn and out again, and have the girl in a twist of his shadow. Madam-inn, how are you going to fight him? With a broom?”

  The innkeeper’s face reddened, but her jaw was set.

  “I will not allow it! The girl stays here!” Turning on her heel, she shut the door firmly in the face of the men gathered on the street.

  They stared at the Tooth-and-Tale for a while, and muttered between themselves. Finally, the Captain gave a sharp order, and the Sword closed rank. They rode north, the wagoneer with his wine-barrel trailing along behind. Off to search for the wicked Shadowcaster.

  Let them search, the tinpots!

  Kirjath couldn’t believe their stupidity. Maybe they didn’t know how badly he wanted the girl. They had identified her position, and left it unguarded in the same fatal moment. He would be done with his task, and be well on the way to Fendwarrow before they had any idea.

  He lurked in the stable a while longer. Then he checked the street. First Light was waking, and a few villagers went about their business. No sign of the Sword.

  He used the motes to hide him within the shadows beside the stable wall. He slipped around the side of the building, and paused at the corner. A few milkmaids passed by, pails balanced on their heads, tongues wagging. When the street was clear, he slunk quickly across the cobbles to the Tooth-and-Tale.

  The back door stood open. A cook was in the kitchen, busy behind clouds of steam. When her back was turned, Kirjath entered. The frying pan which he used to hit her with made a dull, ringing sound. He hoped it would pass for a kitchen sound, as well as the heavy thump as she fell to the floor.

  The corridor had many doors leading off it, each to a different room. He wasted no time, he knew the room he wanted—the last room which looked out over the front street. The door was closed, but Kirjath did not knock. He twisted the door-handle, and flung the door wide.

  * * *

  It was dark, inside. The cart lurched over the last of the broken ground, and settled with a thump onto the road once more. The barrel shook, but never toppled. Fingers drummed rhythmically upon the lid.

  “How much further?”

  “Wine takes time to mature,” said a singsong voice outside.

  “The bumps hurt.”

  The cart slowed, and came to a halt.

  “But you must pretend to be wine, then you’ll not be hurt by the bumps,” the muffled voice declared. A sharp tapping of a hammer jarred the wood above.

  “Watch your head!” warned the Riddler.

  The wedge came free from the lid, and sunlight burst into Tabitha’s world.

  “Poof! Why do people ever drink this stuff? It’s really awful,” she muttered, wriggling out of the barrel. Her legs ached, but it was bearable to stand. She smoothed her tunic, and tucked the coarse woodsman’s trousers into her boots.

  “Ah, but Dwarrow tastes better after the first goblet, and better still after the second,” answered the Riddler, gleaming with good humour. He handed her a heavy overcoat when she took her place beside him at the front of the cart. She hoped Mrs Quilt wouldn’t miss the clothes. The Riddler had been adamant that she say nothing to the innkeeper of where she was going.

  “The Swords are gone?” Tabitha asked, glancing around at the quiet forest.

  “Yes, they turned back long ago. We’ve backtracked as well.”

  Tabitha recognised the road. They were on the High Way, to the south of First Light. Zarost clicked to the horse, snapped the reins. The cart lurched forward, and settled into a good pace.

  “No telling how blunt the Sword really has become. I want to be gone from Phantom Acres before the sun is high.” Zarost pointed to the east, where the sun lay tangled in the boughs of the trees. He urged the grey into a canter. Tabitha held onto the seat with both hands to steady herself.

  She didn’t know what to dread more, the Shadowcaster escaping from First Light, or their imminent arrival at Phantom Acres.

  * * *

  Kirjath stared down the long blade pointed at his throat. A Sword, where there should have been a girl.

  Shatter the sun! It was all too easy, too bloody easy! I should have known.

  He flung himself towards the open door, away from the Sword. He could outrun the soldier. The man looked to be thirty pounds overweight, and not a little out o
f shape.

  A whistling sound warned him an instant before he was struck, but his reflexes were slower than usual. A staff struck him across the head, and the corridor swirled. The staff whistled and struck again. He raised his arms over his head to ward off the blows. He caught a glimpse of a thick dress, and stout legs standing in a firm stance. Then he saw the whole of his attacker. The innkeeper raised her broom for another blow.

  A woman! She dared to strike him! He was being beaten by a woman with a bloody broom!

  He regained his composure in one furious moment. He flung most of his Dark essence at her, retaining only the bare minimum to protect his body.

  “Freeze!” he commanded.

  The Sword rushed at him from the room, blocking his escape to the kitchen. He fled the corridor to the front exit of the Tooth-and-Tale, out into the street.

  Three Swords and their Captain waited for him. They were mounted and ranged in a semicircle around the exit. They closed rank as Kirjath slipped on the cobbles.

  Trapped! By the balls of Krakus! And I haven’t enough essence.

  The Swords dismounted and closed with weapons drawn. The blades were dull, but they’d be sharp enough. Kirjath spun. The fourth Sword emerged from the inn, completing the circle. He forced Kirjath back with violent slashes. The air was suddenly filled with the whistling of blades, all around him. Then he felt cold steel touch his neck. A sword rested there, its point coming from behind to end under his chin. Another sword slid across his belly, the point of a third pressed into his back. The fourth blade pressed against his chest directly over his heart.

  The Captain urged his horse closer, until the beast towered over Kirjath.

  “Shadowcaster, you are under arrest for the suspicion of murder. If you try to escape you shall be executed without question. I presume this Darkness of yours is alike to the Light essence. Release it from your command!”