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

by Greg Hamerton

  Mulrano ran deeper into his house, and he could be heard rummaging about. Zarost turned to Tabitha, and produced something from within the folds of his robes.

  “You must keep this close, and not drop it in the water,” he said, handing a leather tube to her. The leather was worked with the design of a dove, clutching a lyre.

  With a start, Tabitha realised that the song-scroll had gone from her jacket pocket. She had been unaware of its presence for some time, but had not noticed in her fatigue. What with the unfamiliarity of Southwind, and Mulrano’s curious reception, she had completely forgotten about her mother’s legacy. Zarost was gleefull. She plucked the scroll out of his grasp, and shoved it deep inside her jacket once more.

  She turned away to hide her embarassment.

  Thief, she muttered under her breath. The little thief!

  But he had given it back.

  How long has he had it for?

  He had stolen the sword from Glavenor to teach the Swordmaster the value of precious things. She vowed to keep the song scrolls closer than her own underwear.

  Mulrano swept into the room, a leather bag slung over his shoulder. He scooped some fruit into the bag from a bowl, then looped it tight and made for the door, gesturing vigorously that they should follow. He led them down the stairs into the boathouse. Twardy Zarost pattered after Mulrano, still chuckling merrily, and Tabitha followed.

  Mulrano selected a small skiff. It sat fairly high in the water, and had only three seats; one fore, one aft and a box against the masthead. The large volume between the seats was filled with murky green fishing nets, which smelled quite strongly. At any other time, it would have been quite unappealing.

  It could be filled with dead fish, and it would still look good tonight, she thought. Somewhere within the night beyond the house was the Shadowcaster, and he knew where she was now. She stood nervously on the jetty. Mulrano sniffed the air, and collected a pair of oars from the boathouse wall. He strapped them tightly against the gunwales, then un-cleated a thick rope from the mast. He dropped the boom, and a triangular sail unfurled itself neatly. The stern of the boat swung gently out away from the jetty, but Twardy held on to a securing line and kept the bow close. Tabitha waited for Twardy Zarost to board.

  “I shall stay, to delay the pursuit,” the Riddler said, ushering Tabitha over the bow and onto her seat. “I cannot involve myself any more. I am afraid I have done too much already.” He pushed them off from the jetty. Mulrano gave him a hard look, then nodded, and sat down beside the tiller.

  The Riddler waved as they drifted away.

  “Goodbye, Twardy Zarost,” Tabitha called out, “and thank you.”

  “We’ll be seeing each other again. Remember that things are not always what they seem to be. Wait! I have something for you.” He fumbled in his clothes, and produced a small object. He tossed it across the dark water separating them. It was an accurate throw, and Tabitha caught the wooden disc easily.

  “Go now!” shouted Zarost, waving them off. “The dark must not find you yet.”

  Tabitha turned the disc in her hands. It was a circular mirror, bordered and backed with wood. There was something inscribed in the backing, but it was too dark to make it out. She slipped the mirror into her deepest pocket. A strange gift, from a strange man. He had already retreated along the jetty, and was squatting beside a canoe.

  “Goodbye, Blazey,” she called out. A horse snorted from the depths of the boathouse. The wind caught the sail, and the ropes pulled tight with a snap. The water muttered underneath the bow, and Mulrano guided them out across the great rippled realm of the moonlit Amberlake.

  * * *

  When his Morrigán returned to him, he drained it of its vision. The bird’s essence dissolved into his hand, yielding what it had seen. Kirjath wasted no time. The girl was clearly visible, eating a meal with the wagoneer and a bluff fellow with black hair. The raven’s parting view showed the boathouse, on the outskirts of town. She was close.

  The stallion quivered with exhaustion, but he drove his heels deeper.

  “Chase the horse, make it run,” he commanded his second Morrigán. The raven dived and croaked, the horse stumbled toward the lake, dragging its hooves. Even fear could not drive it much further with his weight on its back. He didn’t care; he had no need for it once he had reached the girl. It could collapse and die.

  As soon as Kirjath neared the end of the main street in Southwind, he knew something was awry. A skiff was heading out across the lake, moving slowly across the rippled moonlit water. The lone boat could only mean one thing. The girl was still fleeing his pursuit. He kicked the horse beneath him, driving his heel against its bruised ribs. It gave a short squeal, and shuddered into a trot.

  It went no faster than that, no matter how he kicked.

  Where there’s one boat, there must be others.

  When he reached the jetties, he noticed a small figure sitting at the end of one, his feet dangling over the edge, with a fishing rod in his hand. The line drooped into the dark waters below the jetty. On his head was perched an unmistakable striped hat.

  “Wagonman!” Kirjath shouted, as if the name alone were a sufficient curse. “Where is the girl! I will have the girl!” He leaped from his horse and winced as the pain of his abused legs reminded him of the hard day in the saddle. “Speak, or I will strike the grin from your face as you sit.”

  The man watched him approach. “Good evening to you sir. I am the Riddler. Who might you be?”

  Kirjath strode down the last planks of the jetty, and grabbed hold of the man’s shirt-front roughly with his left hand. A blister broke between his fingers, and he ground his teeth.

  “Liar! You can’t be the Riddler, you aren’t the Riddler! He is advisor to the Darkmaster.” But there was that recurrent familiarity about the man, about his voice. It couldn’t be. Kirjath swallowed against the ugly taste of uncertainty. If this was the Riddler, he would have to be careful, very careful.

  He drew himself up. “I am Kirjath Arkell, and I will have the girl who you spirited away from First Light. Don’t deny it, I have tracked you both. Is she on that boat?” Kirjath pointed a crooked right hand at the now distant smudge of darkness out on the lake.

  The man who called himself the Riddler nodded, suddenly cowering from Kirjath’s intent stare. That alone proved he wasn’t the Riddler. Cabal’s advisor had never been afraid of anyone. He had been an enigma, always heavily cloaked in Ravenscroft, his face hidden. But never scared. This little man was nothing more than a cheeky wagoneer in a silly hat. At first his voice had seemed familiar, but the more Kirjath decided that he was an imposter, the less familiar it sounded.

  “She runs from your embrace, though I can’t imagine why,” the wagoneer said. He even had the cheek to grin at his own witticism.

  Kirjath’s backhand blow caught the hatter below the chin, and he was knocked on his side. Kirjath poised himself. The false Riddler clutched to his fishing rod, and looked up belligerently at Kirjath. Somehow, his hat clung to his head. But he did not retaliate, and Kirjath exhaled quiet relief. It was not the Riddler. This man was powerless.

  He was extremely cheeky, for he spoke again. “I’ll not be letting you use any of these boats, if that’s what you’re thinking. They belong to my friend, and he’s not one to lend boats to strangers.”

  Kirjath’s rage pounded in his ears. The tatty imposter was defying him. Lying, provoking, and defying Kirjath Arkell. The last of his Dark essence, that which was tending his wounds, came quickly to his hand. He drove the motes into the wagoneer’s ears, choosing a simple pattern that suited his needs.

  “Despair,” Kirjath whispered, his breath washing against the little man’s cheek. The imposter would not be moving until the essence was recalled. His worst fears would lock his mind into a trap where every direction was closer to danger, and the only safety was in remaining completely still, not resisting, not daring to fight back.

  It was a basic Dark spell, one that worked onl
y on the weakest of minds, but it was all that Kirjath had power for. There was no more Dark essence around. It looked to be good enough. The doomed hatter was already staring crazily into the night, and he had begun to gibber.

  Kirjath struck him with another backhand blow. “I am Kirjath Arkell. Remember to fear my name, and maybe you’ll live a while longer.” He kicked the man in his ribs, then kicked again, his lips curling back into a wild grin. His spell held the man in a grip of terror. He was definitely not the Riddler.

  The sudden shriek of a horse broke the silence. Hoofbeats thudded away along the soft shore, an unsteady gallop which splashed through shallows, then returned to the ground, then into the shallows once more.

  The bloody raven was chasing the horse, Kirjath realised. In his fury he had forgotten about the second Morrigán bird. They were simple creatures of magic. Without guidance, it had continued with its original instruction: chase the horse, make it run.

  Well, the horse could run. It would likely drown itself when it stopped, the stupid beast. But he had a desperate need for the Dark essence. With a sharply voiced command, and the accompanying mental symbol, he recalled the bird.

  A flurry of wings beat the air before his face, then the raven landed on his outstretched arm. His recently abandoned wounds screamed to be numbed with the touch of Dark, but Kirjath had a more pressing task. Before the Morrigán could dissolve, he sent it off across the glimmering waters of the lake. He needed to confirm who travelled in the lone vessel.

  But he knew.

  With every second, the girl was getting further away, and closer to the distant goal of Levin. She would be easy enough to find in Levin, but that would take time, time he didn’t have. A worse possibility would be if she stopped off in Stormhaven. The King’s Isle meant Swords, and Swords meant trouble. He had to reach her before she made the isle. But even with her headstart, it would take the best part of the night for her to reach Stormhaven.

  He surveyed the boats which lay in the slack water beside the jetties. A big, tall-masted boat sat low in the water. Probably holed somewhere, he thought, glancing into its flooded hull. Then there was a punt, a barge-like boat with three sets of oars, and a canoe. The canoe lay with its single-bladed paddle jutting out of the bow, ready and waiting for him. The wind had been dying all afternoon, it was likely to be dead before the night was through. The canoe would be the fastest, though he would have to paddle one-handed.

  Just then a flurry of wings announced the return of his messenger. He received its news. The cooling touch of Dark was almost as welcome as the vision of a young woman, looking forlorn in a small sailing vessel, seated beside a bluff fisherman.

  Shatter the sun, but I’ll paddle one-footed if I could get that girl in my grasp! He boarded the canoe, and settled himself in the rounded hull. A wide cork stopper was jammed in a rude gap in the base, near the bow. It looked to be a recent repair, the cork was not yet soiled by grease or weathered by the sun. He eyed it warily, but the plug showed no sign of leaking. If it works for the fisherman, it’ll have to do for me. He pushed himself off the jetty with the end of the paddle, and drifted past the entranced wagoneer. The man was still clutching his fishing rod, and staring hopelessly out over the lake.

  “Have a nice night, Riddler.” Kirjath sneered. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning, when my essence returns to the shade.” And with that, he paddled out into the deeper water, biting curses at his awkward grip. The lake glistened smoothly under the failing breeze, and the canoe left a widening trail of ripples in its wake.

  * * *

  As soon as the canoe reached a safe distance, Twardy Zarost let the Dark essence drain out of his ear. It dripped onto the planking like oil, and seeped through the gaps to the water below.

  By the light of the Creator, that was cold! Nonetheless, it had been necessary, to appear to be helpless and harmless. He could not fight Arkell, he should not be opposing him at all. Arkell was Tabitha’s problem, her first rival on her path to the wizard. Zarost knew that a Seeker should not be protected from her rivals if her development was going to be successful, for if she was not the best on her own, then she should not be the one to find the wizard.

  He had decided to disobey the rule in Tabitha’s case. For pity’s sake! She sang the Lifesong!

  Yet for a Riddler, there were consequences to every action; he had to try his best to ensure balance in all things. He had maintained the balance in First Light, by assisting both the Seeker and Arkell, in different ways. Here he had gone beyond that, he had chosen sides, and his actions would create an imbalance. He couldn’t afford to fight Arkell, that would still be up to Tabitha. All he had done was to delay their meeting. He hoped the Gyre would forgive him for that small indescretion.

  He stared out over the water.

  Mulrano had impressed him. The bluff fisherman had crossed the Shadowcasters once before, and had suffered for it. Still, he was not cowed; the anger ran too deep. They had made sure of the fact that Mulrano would never speak of what he had seen that night the Crown Prince was abducted, of where he had tracked them to. When the Swords had interrogated him, he had not been able to speak to defend himself, and so he had been branded a traitor, because it had been his boat the Shadowcasters had used during the abduction.

  That he was risking the journey to Stormhaven himself to see Tabitha clear of the Shadowcaster’s danger, told volumes about his character. He defied his tormentors, and the unjust prejudice of Stormhaven.

  Yes, Mulrano was a good man for the Seeker to know.

  Zarost pulled his pipe and flint from his pocket, and soon had a glowing bowl to chuff upon. He remained seated on the edge of the jetty, and watched the thin fishing line pay out from his reel as the canoe receded across the lake.

  * * *

  Tabitha awoke from the biting stiffness in her neck. Something had changed with their movement, and she blinked owlishly around her, trying to puzzle it out. The sail was furled, the boom was raised and tied tightly against the mast. They hadn’t travelled that far, she could still make out the receding shoreline in the distance, though it was far enough away to be an arduous swim. The distance remaining to Stormhaven was surely far greater. The rhythmic creak of oars measured out the time. She could make out the hulking form of Mulrano seated against the mast with his back to her. He had a strong, steady stroke which propelled them through the slick water. Overhead stretched a velvet night sky, studded with stars. The wind which had carried them from Southwind had died.

  The moon stood high above the western horizon, a waning three-quarter orb, casting a path of ghost-light across the lake. Her gaze fell on a black shape in the glistening highway. Her breath caught in her throat. Something was paddling toward them, an angry, mistimed paddle which alternated erratically from left to right. But even though the paddler was inefficient, the sleek craft was borne closer to them with every pull.

  Mulrano nodded resignedly when she touched his shoulder and pointed to their pursuer, as if he knew already. His pace remained unchanged, and Tabitha was about to urge him faster when she noticed the steam coming off his back. His shirt was slicked with sweat; not a dry patch remained. He was rowing as fast as he could manage, and had evidently been doing so for some time. She flicked her eyes back to the pursuer, gripping the mast tight with her fingers as she saw the unmistakable shape of a canoe, and the black-cloaked figure of the Shadowcaster within.

  * * *

  He would have her soon. Kirjath dug the oar in deeply, and pulled through the incessant pain.

  Just a few more strokes, and the little screamer will be mine!

  He would kill the fisherman too, for his interference.

  Suddenly, the canoe struck something in the water, a submerged log or a big fish. The nose of the canoe dipped slightly. He felt cold water rushing around his feet, and he cursed. The hasty repair he had seen earlier must have been dislodged—he bent down to search for the cork plug inside the canoe. Water gushed in through the gaping hole
, but nowhere could he find the cork.

  Blast and befoul this craft! Damn it, it’s sinking!

  He stamped his foot down, but the hole was an awkward shape, and the water continued to flow in around his toes. It was a serious breach. He pushed his foot deeper into the hole. The hull gave way as he pushed hard against it, and cold water gushed over his legs.

  In a desperate gambit, he threw the fading Dark essence in the water and commanded the motes to Freeze. But its power had waned, the motes all but consumed in numbing his wounds. His Freeze spell yielded only a few cubes of ice, which floated away from his thrashing hands as the canoe sank. He howled in his frustration.

  “I will find you, girl!” he shouted over the water. “I’ll catch you, and I’ll make you pay before you die!”

  He knew his shouts would carry the short distance, yet no one within the vessel responded. The fisherman rowed the boat away with strong oar-strokes. The glistening ripples of the bow-wave receded towards Stormhaven.

  * * *

  Twardy Zarost sat on the end of the jetty, his feet dangling above the dark water. He reeled in the last of his fishing line, and watched a piece of cork skip across the water towards him.

  “Depending on the hook you make, you can catch some strange fish in the Amberlake,” he said over his shoulder to the darkness. He was answered by a deep neigh from within the boathouse.

  “Finish up your hay,” he added. “I believe it’s time to be off, off and away.”

  Tabitha would be safe for a while now, he hoped. She needed time to become accustomed to the Ring. She wasn’t quite ready for his riddles, he could see, she became frustrated, and that meant she wasn’t ready for answers. Let her look deeply into the Mirror of Self-Reflection, and consider the truth it offered. That little mirror he had given to her was a paradox in itself, because it came from his time with the Philosophers of Kaskanzr, but he had covetted it despite the bitter memories, he had kept it all these years, because the view within it had been so very valuable. He had seen many things in its honest glass, but none so instructive as the face he had seen that morning, when he had risen in the alpine hamlet of First Light: a Riddler who had grown old with trying, with a bright new hope burning in his eyes.