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

by Greg Hamerton

  “I don’t care how you achieve their deaths,” the Darkmaster answered in a crisp whisper. “But you broke into a most private vault in Ravenscroft to gain the demon-lore, so chew on this while you execute your task. It may offer a good reminder of the value of things left unbroken.”

  A curling ball of motes shot from the Master’s hand, too fast to avoid. Kirjath heard the tooth crack in his jaw before he felt the pain. Splinters of dentine gouged into his tongue. He ground down on the ruined tooth, just to spite the violation, to make it his own will that caused the agony. The taste of blood was sharp.

  He said nothing more.

  Yet so much changed as his feet bore him across the hard surface of the throne room, through the gloom beyond the torch, to the arched exit, and the cold passage beyond. With each step he took away from the coercive influence of the Darkmaster, his own anger returned. He could think for himself again, and only for himself. A clear purpose filled Kirjath Arkell, clearer than any he had ever known before.

  Cabal was wrong to punish him for daring the demon-lore. The Master had pushed him too far.

  Kirjath vowed that his days of being a servant to the Darkmaster were over. The Riddler and the girl would die, but for his own reasons. He would return with the Ring, and the Morgloth, more powerful than the tyrant could ever be.

  Kirjath had discovered a compulsion stronger than fear.

  Hatred.

  He spat a mouthful of blood against the wall. The Darkmaster would taste an infinitely larger amount of that before he died. Kirjath would take great care that his enemy died slowly.

  19. ECHOES OF ETHEA

  “Secrets love to be told.”—Zarost

  Tabitha gazed at the parchments which lay on the giant oak table. Three sheets of crackling paper, each covered with her mother’s upright script. She spread the pages flat with the outside of her arms, but the corners still curled defiantly inwards. The library was quiet, as still as a cave, apart from the librarian who scuttled past infrequently. Most of the scholars who were present were bent over their own work, hidden at tables amongst the tall shelves of bound scrolls, books, manuscripts, and tomes of law. The alcove which Tabitha had chosen was dimly lit. A fat candle squatted on an iron saucer. Its red skin collected wax in warts and blisters as time breathed slowly over it.

  The first page was a disorganised collection of writing. It looked as if Trisha had built up a poem over many months or separate entries. The ink was faded in some places, and arrows redirected text across the page. Dominating the page was a musical score, exactly scribed, needing no alteration. The melody marched through the chaos of words, binding them together. After the final rest, a comment had been added.

  Echoes of a distant voice—Yearsend 402.

  Tabitha recognised the date. She had been born at the end of that month, on Midsummer’s Eve. She wondered if it was coincidental.

  The lyrics were difficult to follow from start to finish, but after a while she had sorted the order.

  The string of the lyre plucked in tune

  can shed off its notes with a shiver.

  A voice that is pure can unleash the allure

  of the Singer, the Saviour, Lifegiver!

  All lives might be woven together,

  all bitter cruel warring might cease,

  when the song in your heart is sung in full,

  when that resonance finds release.

  When the Song of Life is sung in full,

  and the Universe feels its peace.

  Lifesong. The title she had used for her own song, the one she had learned in the daydream, the song she had sung to bring her mother back.

  The melody was different, but the score had as many pauses and silences as her own version. Rests, where a normal song would have had notes. She didn’t have a lyre, but she could follow the music in her head. She didn’t dare to break the silence of the library by singing out loud, but she risked a quiet humming of the tune. It was a light, delicate, and strangely timed piece, enchanting in a familiar way. The same powerful word tied the two songs together.

  She traced her fingers over the jumbled lyrics, wondering if she had got the sequence right. It seemed to rhyme, the way she had sung it.

  Mother wrote this? Did she ever sing it?

  She imagined her mother sitting in the living room, playing gaily on her twin-stringed lyre, her golden hair catching the sun. The image dissolved with a piercing sting of truth. Her mother would never play music again.

  The second page bore no music at all. It was filled with patterns, three complex diagrams made from pale and delicate threads.

  Light. Spell-patterns of the Light!

  She knew such diagrams were forbidden. Only the Dovecote held spell-scrolls. The Gifter’s knowledge was strictly protected, yet here stood spell-patterns, she was sure, written in her mother’s own hand.

  Tabitha scanned the labels.

  Flameburst. Spriteblind. Truthfury.

  The names conjured up images of a Gifter in battle, the Light used as a weapon, with a deadly intent. Tabitha was stunned. Violence was not the Lightgifter’s way, not according to what she had been told about Lightgifters.

  Maybe these spells are not taught in the Dovecote.

  A burn-scarred Shadowcaster. Phantom Acres in ashes. The fire might not have been set by the Shadowcaster. It might have been her mother’s last act of defence.

  Tabitha followed the intricate designs. Within the curling patterns, delicately scribed under the threads, stood the words of each spell.

  It took her some time to decipher the writing, and even longer to memorise the spells. The patterns were so complex she resorted to covering each of them up, to study them in parts. The candle burned lower.

  It was ironic that the first spells of Light she was learning were patterns of violence. She wondered how one practiced such spells. However, it made her feel good, to have begun her learning as a Lightgifter. She would surely be trained in many spells in the Dovecote. She wasn’t so sure they would ever teach her the Flameburst, Spriteblind or Truthfury. It would be her secret, kept with mother’s spirit.

  At last, she was ready to turn the page. The last scroll was another musical score. She recognised the unique timing at once. She eagerly mouthed the words as she followed the special music.

  Sing low from your heart with grieving,

  and sing back the faults you have cast,

  Undo the hurt in the words never meant;

  for hate can return from the past.

  All Death is an end to a circle,

  all circles must close to be tight,

  better the truth than the lies of before,

  when wrong was held to be right.

  Better the truth than the falseness before,

  when you hold the Creation in sight.

  Something was different about this Lifesong stanza, it felt like a dirge, not a dance. Her mouth was dry. She noticed a remark penned in the border.

  Played during Summerset 410. Wasting death amongst the animals despite Light healing. Worst winter in memory. Hank and Tabitha sick. Is this linked?

  Tabitha searched for a memory of the bad winter. She would have been seven years old in that year. She drew on the Ring, and clarity infused her. Tabitha’s memories became a matrix of detail, neatly ordered, layer upon layer, every year unique, every sight and sound present in her thoughts. The immensity of what the Ring allowed her to see was overwhelming, but her need drove her onwards. She held onto her purpose—to find the time when she had endured the effects of the second stanza.

  A memory burst across her vision. A bed, her mother’s healing, an emptiness that never filled, her own frail arms pulling at the blankets, an incessant cough. She had all but forgotten it. Once recalled, the memory was vivid, so vivid she began to cough and tremble in her heart. The snow had blocked the windows until well past Wintersbreach. It had seemed that the essence had been drained from the world around her, and that everything was hollow, without substance.
It was the first time she had ever feared that she might die. Thankfully her mother had only sung the stanza once, and had neither practiced nor perfected it.

  She let out a long, slow breath. The vision faded.

  A footnote was scrawled at an angle beneath the last verse.

  Long have I prayed for a song to heal the hurt I have caused. I fear to sing either of these verses again. Beware. There is a power here I do not understand.

  Tabitha stared at the second stanza and its anecdotes. The candle wax spilled over the rim of its saucer, and pooled slowly on the desk, flowing into a knotted depression. The flame guttered, and died, leaving a trail of smoke rising through the returning gloom. The words became indiscernible.

  Beware.

  There was much Tabitha didn’t understand of her mother’s writing. Little wonder her mother had never spoken of the songs, never shared the knowledge with her. It was secret. The horror of the last song had spoiled the joy of the first, that was plain. For the first time, Tabitha considered that maybe her mother had not bequeathed the scrolls at all. Maybe they were private, and should have joined the ashes of Phantom Acres, the secret kept intact to the grave. Maybe she should not have learned the violent spells, or read the verses of the Lifesong at all.

  She slipped the scrolls into their sheath. The leather tube was a heavy burden in her bag as she made for the exit, but she knew it was the kind of knowledge never intended to be left in a library.

  * * *

  Tabitha’s noon engagement with Lady Westerbrook was at the Leaf of Merrick. She found May at a private table in the arboretum which overlooked the grounds. Spring played through soft leaves beneath the sun. Beyond the verdant gardens, the buildings of Stormhaven dropped away to the distant City Walls. Even the glinting allure of Amberlake was bright in the clear air.

  The food was served on fine earthenware. Salads, oils, herb-bread and cheese soon settled her belly, and a mild drink of honey jasmine soothed the last of Tabitha’s nervousness away. The Lady of Ceremony was as respectful and open-hearted as always. After a few pleasant minutes of light conversation, she could not avoid May’s probing sympathy.

  “Finally, I can hear about your journey,” said May, smiling. “Are you happy to talk of it, or shall it wait for another day?”

  Tabitha set her bread aside. It would do no good to avoid the truth. She nodded to May.

  “Your mother died,” May began gently, “and yet you sought sanctuary here. Your father? Dead as well?”

  Tabitha dipped her head again.

  “Mercy me! And this morning, a certain Captain Steed of the Sword was seen arriving, with a heavy burden—three fallen comrades from First Light. I have been asked to prepare a Ceremony of Memorial. He wouldn’t speak more of it. Is there a link in this tragedy?”

  The Shadowcaster. The face at the window. Father falling. The burnt remains of Phantom Acres. Blackened skeletons in the ash.

  The suppressed memories flooded her mind. Tabitha wished that she had more control over the Ring’s intensity.

  “Oh dear, oh dear!” said May, placing a comforting hand on Tabitha’s arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you so.”

  “No, it’s all right!” Tabitha said, too sharply. “I want to talk, I need to tell you. I just wish –” Tears stung her eyes. “I just wish it didn’t hurt so.” She paused to steady her voice. “I feel so alone without anyone knowing.”

  “I understand, I know,” May comforted. “You tell me when you feel it’s right.”

  When did it all begin to go wrong?

  “He came at night,” Tabitha began, “and he struck father to the floor with his Dark essence. He was a Shadowcaster, one of the Dark Essentials. He wanted...” Tabitha paused, feeling suddenly uncertain.

  The Ring. She bit her cheek, and closed her eyes for a second.

  You have to trust somebody.

  “He wanted my mother’s Ring,” she continued. “Mother wouldn’t give it to him, and she gave it to me, made me run, out into the night, and leave them there. When I returned, after two days—they were both dead, lying in the ashes of the fire.”

  Tears stung her eyes.

  May’s gentle touch steadied Tabitha. Nonetheless, telling the whole story hurt like a fire-brand pushed through her heart. She told May everything—of the Riddler, and her escape from First Light, the ride to Southwind, the night of terror on the lake, Mulrano the hero, their reception at Stormhaven. There was only one secret she wasn’t prepared to share. She kept the Lightstone hidden beneath her tunic.

  When Tabitha had finished, May rose and came to hold Tabitha tight. Tabitha took strength from the embrace.

  May returned to her chair, shaking her head. “It seems we are living in terrifying times, and you are right at the centre of events. The past few days are likely to shake the whole of Eyri to its roots, and I don’t think it will stop shaking for some time.”

  “Do you think they’ll catch the Shadowcaster, May? The Swords, will they stop him?”

  “Yes, my dear, they will have to, but it sounds as if he is terribly dangerous. To leave three of the Swords dead, as well as your parents! This is more violent a man than any rumours we have collected from Fendwarrow of Shadowcasters. He shall be brought to the King’s justice,” she ended, with a level stare.

  “Executed?”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Seeing the certainty in May’s eyes made Tabitha feel a little better, but her sadness remained. Killing the Shadowcaster wasn’t ever going to bring her parents back.

  “You spoke of a ring your mother treasured. Was that all that the Shadowcaster sought? His actions sound extreme for a thief.”

  Not really a thief, Tabitha thought. The Ring hadn’t really belonged to her mother, either.

  “It’s not an ordinary kind of ring,” said Tabitha. She held up her right hand to the light. The Ring glistened like wet glass, a band of moving clarity. “Promise you’ll keep this a secret?” she asked.

  “But there’s nothing there,” said May, at length. She shot Tabitha a concerned glance.

  “Here, feel it,” Tabitha insisted, reaching out and taking hold of May’s hand. She guided May’s fingers to the Ring.

  May gasped. “I still can’t see it!” she exclaimed, “but I can feel it. It’s so cold.” May squinted. “Yet completely invisible.”

  Strange, it’s warm to me. Can’t she see it at all?

  “This is incredible!” said May. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” She touched the Ring again, then withdrew her hand as if stung.

  “It’s bitterly cold. Why do you wear such a thing?”

  For the clarity of thought, the sight of a hawk, the hearing of a hound. Because with it, I understand more. Because it is a beautiful thing. Because I cannot remove it.

  Every reason was too private to reveal.

  “It’s mine,” she said. She knew it sounded lame.

  “Yet the Shadowcaster knew about this ring, even though it can’t be seen. He came to your mother to collect it.”

  Tabitha caught a warning glint in May’s eye.

  “Did it belong to anyone before your mother?”

  She has reasoned out the Shadowcaster’s pursuit. How do I answer truthfully without making Mother seem to be a thief?

  “The Riddler said it has passed through many hands, but that it belongs to a wizard.”

  “A wizard! The only wizards I’ve heard of live in the myths of the Forming, and who knows how fanciful the pens which wrote that history were? There are no wizards in Eyri, Tabitha.”

  “But the Riddler said it was my quest to find the wizard.”

  “This Riddler, he wouldn’t be a small, brown-skinned man with a bristling beard and a striped pelt hat.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Tabitha. She realised that she had only alluded to him in her tale, but never described him. “You know him?”

  “That trickster preyed on the Swordmaster when he was in Levin.”

  “You know about that?” Tabith
a said, incredulous.

  “Not many know, but I am a historian, Tabitha. Collecting knowledge of events is my skill. Now if this is the same man who rescued you from the Shadowcaster, my advice would be to be thankful, but don’t believe a word he says.”

  “Twardy Zarost speaks in riddles, but I think there is always truth in what he says. He seems very wise.”

  “Wise at appearing wise, no doubt. Tricksters always are, and they’re always after something.”

  “But Zarost hasn’t taken anything from me.”

  “Are you sure? Have you counted your coin recently?”

  “I’ve never—there’s so much—I never thought to check.”

  She reached for her bag beneath the table, then thought better and looked up at May sharply.

  “That’s not like Twardy, he wouldn’t have stolen anything from me. He wouldn’t even take the Ring, when he saw it and I offered it to him.”

  “He can see the Ring as well as you? Then it is a strange thing I don’t understand. How can one person see it, and not another?”

  “Twardy Zarost is clever that way. He saw the Shadowcaster too, when the Swords wouldn’t believe him in First Light.”

  “Just—be careful around him,” said May. “And be careful with that ring. Your pursuer must covet it greatly, to have risked so much to follow you.”

  Tabitha suddenly considered another alarming possibility. The lone Shadowcaster might not be the only one to be sent after her. The more secret she kept the Ring, the less of a target she would be.

  “Please. Don’t tell anyone about it.”

  May regarded her coolly. “You will speak of it to the King, when you have audience with him? He must know the whole story, to understand your pursuit.”

  It was something Tabitha hadn’t considered, baring herself to the King. It was unavoidable, she supposed. He was the King of Eyri, and she had requested an audience.

  “Yes, I’ll tell him,” she promised.

  “Good, then let us finish our meal, and speak no more of it. I’ll hold what we have said in confidence.”