When she donned the silky gown, she found that it was an elegant fit. Pia helped eagerly throughout her hurried preparations, doing naught to calm Tabitha’s nerves, twittering of the palace halls, the audience chambers and the protocols she had been taught to keep during an audience with the King.
Tabitha tugged nervously on the Lightstone at her throat, exposed above the low neckline of her fine dress. There would be no hiding the white orb. She squared her shoulders.
Maybelle said I must be honest with the King. Let it begin with the Lightstone.
* * *
Lady Westerbrook was waiting in the cool foyer of the House of Ceremony. She was elegantly dressed, and a blue-metal circlet held her hair back from her face. She smiled and commended Tabitha on how well the dress suited her. Then her gaze fell on the exposed orb at Tabitha’s throat.
“Oh,” was all she said at first, but her eyebrows flew high to perch near the circlet. “When did you … is that your mother’s?”
The question was too direct to avoid with clever words. Tabitha nodded.
“You were not orbed by the Dovecote.” It was a statement.
“The Riddler sealed the clasp,” said Tabitha. “But I am sworn to the Light.”
“This Riddler has a lot to answer for.” May watched Tabitha for a while, with a calculating gaze. “Are there any other secrets to your tale?”
“None,” said Tabitha, hastily.
The Ring was a sudden biting circle of ice on her finger. She had vowed to tell the truth.
The Lifesong.
It seemed too private a matter to admit. She hardly understood what the song meant. But her singing had drawn the Shadowcaster in the first place. It was an important fact in the course of her tale. She had to be truthful if she wanted to retain Maybelle’s friendship.
“Except, I am a singer. I sang a song that the Shadowcaster heard from afar. I am not sure how he was drawn to it.”
May seemed satisfied. “You are an extraordinary young woman, Tabitha Serannon. I was right to call a special audience. These are things that the King should know of, if he is to understand this present threat to the realm. He is wise, our Mellar, but he needs information in the first place. Be sure to tell him everything, Tabitha.”
“May, how does a special audience differ from an audience?”
“An audience may take a week to be heard, a special audience is my privilege as Lady of Ceremony. He does not know I bring you or your tale with me, but that is my prerogative.”
“Won’t the King be—angry?” Tabitha enquired, feeling suddenly foolish in her royal gown.
“Angry? Not our Mellar. Come! It is right for women to keep men waiting, but not for too long, lest they realise they are waiting.”
Maybelle winked, and led Tabitha from the House of Ceremony. Pia skipped along beside them. The bustle of Stormhaven passed by in a swirl of coloured cloaks and the trample of boots. Soon the crowds thinned, and they came to the spear-tipped fence that bordered the palace. Five Swords gleamed in the gateway, blocking their passage as effectively as a drawn blade.
“Maybelle Westerbrook of the House of Ceremony, my guideling Pia, and my guest Tabitha Serannon of the Meadowmoor County, for special audience with the King,” announced May.
One of the Swords moved to the open hatch of the gatehouse, and nodded to a scribe who began to scribble furiously in a ledger.
“Aye, we know of your audience, Missus Westerbrook,” said the scribe. “Miss Serannon,” he said, nodding. He indicated Pia with the end of his quill. “The little one may go only to the door of the audience chambers so long as she returns with the escort without any misbehaviour. I’ll not be held responsible for a guideling underfoot in the Palace.”
Pia beamed at the scribe. He turned and issued a crisp command to the Swords. They stepped smoothly aside, standing to perfect attention. The sunlight glinting on their polished helms and sword-hilts was the only thing which shifted as Tabitha passed by. She wondered how many times they had practised the motion, how many times they would do it again.
They followed their singular escort into the palace grounds. They traversed a short avenue of silken trees, and mounted a grand stairway. They passed between massive stone pillars, and through the engraved doors set therein. The cool interior was vaulted and quiet.
The palace was wondrous. The corridors were floored with immaculate, dark stonewood, polished to a glistening sheen. The scent of crushed leaves and wax lingered in the air. Organic patterns wove throughout, created by the use of varying hues, delighting the eye with whorls and random grains. The walls were a richer tone than the floor, panelled more with red than brown.
It must have been touched by the wizards, to be of stonewood, Tabitha marvelled.
Statues of water-fowl posed in alcoves and lost corners, making to spear a fish with their stone beaks or to beat the air with their outstretched wings. Giant carvings of Eyrian men battling winged beasts and vicious-weaponed foes poised on pedestals. They were so realistic that Tabitha could imagine they had paused their striving only as the procession neared, and would resume their fights once they were hidden again.
Despite the art, the palace had a rigid feel to it, as if everything had its place, and that moving anything would be frowned upon. Even the tapestries were stretched on identical frames, set at regular spaces along the corridors. The art was colourful and alive, but contained within strict borders.
Tabitha smoothed her dress, and her hand fluttered to the Lightstone at her throat. The grandeur of the palace made her feel inadequate and ill-prepared. Even Pia seemed to be affected, for she had not uttered a word since they had entered the palace. Yet the Lady of Ceremony strode with confidence beside them.
Tabitha took strength from the fact that it was really May’s audience, and she was a guest. But she knew she would have to recount her tale directly to the King once they were received.
A short man appeared from a side corridor, wrapped in a yellow robe and an aura of self-importance. Tabitha recognised the Official with a sinking heart. His objections were voiced before he had come within ten paces of them.
“What is a guideling doing inside the Palace? Miss Westerbrook, there is no need for her kind here. Take her back to the gates, Sword Tarennin.” Pia and the Sword peeled off from the group before Maybelle could countermand it, as if they knew from experience that their presence would only bring further insult and bad consequence.
May’s voice held an edge of warning. “Lethin Tarrok, you may be an Official of the Court, but your manners appal me. Who gave you the right to dismiss my companions so?”
“Lady of Ceremony, you of all people should know the Palace is no place for children, and that I command these halls. You should be ashamed that you brought her, not indignant.”
“Oh, hush, you mean little man. We come to a special audience with the King, so stand aside.”
“I must ask why she accompanies you. Surely you are not bringing her case to the King?”
His eyes slid over Tabitha, then returned to May.
“Whom I bring to my audience is none of your concern,” May answered. “I might ask you why the audience Tabitha requested has not yet been scheduled. Her case is of vital importance.”
“I would not trouble my King with tales brought by a liar.”
The blood pounded in Tabitha’s ears, but she could not speak. May was outraged.
“Lethin Tarrok, you forget yourself! You will apologise for that slander.”
“Not at all. By the word of the House of Lightgifters, Tabitha Serannon is a name not listed in those orbed by the Dovecote. She gained her entrance to Stormhaven under many false pretences, one of them being that stone.” He pointed an accusing finger at Tabitha’s throat. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
May drew herself up. “This young woman fled her parents’ murderer to reach Stormhaven. No wonder she wasn’t thinking clearly when confronted by one such as you in the harbour. Lightgifter or not, sh
e is an Eyrian, and by Fynn’s Tooth she will be treated as one. Now stand aside, we have an audience to attend.”
“Not at all,” said Tarrok. “If you insist on completing your audience, it is my duty to escort you, and announce you to the King. Follow me,” he ended, turning away before May could respond. The look that the Lady of Ceremony directed at his back could have burned stone. May took Tabitha’s arm without a word. They followed Tarrok, at their own pace.
If I had not revealed the Lightstone this morning, would May have stood up for me?
Tabitha was suddenly very glad she had trusted her friend.
She mulled over the value of honesty as they were led further through the palace. Tarrok ducked into a narrow archway ahead of them, then turned to face them with an impatient, withering expression. Maybelle slowed.
“The throne room –” Maybelle began, pointing along the main hallway they had been walking.
“Not the throne room,” Tarrok corrected. “The King is in his private chambers. This way.”
They followed the Official down the side corridor. The roof was somewhat lower, the walls were plain. They came to a door inlaid with gold fretwork. Tarrok knocked loudly, then heaved the door open. It swung back on silent hinges.
“The Lady of Ceremony, and her companion,” Tarrok announced, as he preceded them into the room. “I must warn you, your Highness, that –”
Tabitha grimaced at the words to come, but May cut off the Official’s sentence with a sharp voice.
“You must warn of nothing, Tarrok! And you forget your manners.” They were suddenly inside the room, standing before King Mellar. Tabitha’s head spun as the King regarded her with wise eyes. She heard May’s announcement as if from afar.
“My guest is Tabitha Serannon. Good morning, your Highness.”
Tabitha stood frozen in awe for an instant before realising that May had dipped in a curtsy. She hastily copied May’s example.
The King of Eyri.
“Morning, Highness,” she breathed.
“Ladies,” King Mellar acknowledged them both. He faced them from behind a thick desk; a bear-like man with piercing green eyes but kindly features. His head bore copper hair, upon which was set the golden crown Tabitha knew as the Kingsrim. A large portrait of a young Prince hung behind King Mellar’s desk, a second painting showed Mellar’s son playing with a toy boat on the Amberlake shore. There was a miniature picture-frame balanced on the King’s desk which faced away from Tabitha, but she could guess whose face it displayed.
“Welcome to my private study. Your guest surprises me, Lady Westerbrook, but she is welcome. Thank you Tarrok, that will be all.” The King’s voice was warm, and deep.
“But your Highness, this girl is not–”
“I said, that will be all,” King Mellar said firmly, forestalling the other. “You can advise me after, but I’d like to offer my guests an untainted audience.”
“She –”
“Out!” boomed Mellar. The command in that voice stunned Tabitha. Tarrok backed away, and the door closed with a hush behind him.
“Sorry about that. Take a seat, please.”
Despite her pounding nervousness, Tabitha found herself settling in a chair close to the King’s desk.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why here and not the throne room, Lady of Ceremony. I had hoped to speak of things which the prying ears and buzzing tongues of the Officials might not hear.” A meaningful glance was exchanged between the King and Maybelle, a look which did not go unnoticed by Tabitha.
Maybelle smiled. “I was wondering more why you keep a man like Tarrok in your service.”
Tabitha’s eyes grew wide. Never in a hundred years would she have considered to challenge the King so. Even Maybelle seemed to realise the implicit defiance.
“Sorry, your Highness, I forget myself in my temper. He is your Official.”
King Mellar made a placating gesture.
“And my nephew, Maybelle. Have no worry. I know you speak plainly and I value such audience. Aye, he may seem rude, when there are so many others with fine manners. Sometimes the seat of rule becomes the centre of a spider’s web, binding me to my throne. How that web is spun, and with which threads, is my burden. I cannot deny my older sister’s son, when there is hope that he may be coached in some useful profession here. But enough of the court! I come to my study to escape the tangled web of bureaucrats and servants for a moment.”
“Yet a weak thread might bring a web down,” Tabitha said.
She covered her mouth with her hand—she hadn’t intended to speak her thoughts aloud. She wished she didn’t have the compelling urges of a Truthsayer. The Ring had only made her talent more pronounced, by bringing clarity to her intuition.
King Mellar held Tabitha with his level gaze. She felt as if he noticed every fine detail—each crease in her blue dress, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the snow-white Lightgifters orb.
“You speak very freely, young lady. I would value it if you continued to do so. There are few who have the courage.”
Tabitha was about to splutter out an apology when she realised the King had accepted her outburst. May saved her from further embarrassment.
“That is one of the reasons I brought her, Mellar. The other is the tale she bears, a tragic, but most extraordinary tale.”
“Of course, you are the Serannons’ daughter! Forgive my slowness of wit. The Captain from First Light mentioned the farm at Phantom Acres, and the outrage committed there. My deepest sympathies, Tabitha, you are a strong woman to have endured it so well. A credit to the Lightgifters indeed.”
“Thank you, your Highness,” Tabitha mumbled.
How do I tell him now that it’s a borrowed Lightstone?
Her heart ached to tell the truth.
“Why was I not told of your arrival in Stormhaven?” he asked.
“It was Tarrok who received her,” May answered for her, crisply. “He doesn’t understand her importance.”
“Ah, then,” said the King, but did not finish the sentence at once. “I take your meaning of broken threads in the web.”
“It was not entirely his fault,” replied Tabitha. “He wouldn’t let me into Stormhaven, so I showed him this orb and claimed the privilege of a royal audience. But he found out about the orb. It isn’t mine, this is my mother’s Lightstone. I’m not yet a Lightgifter.”
The King regarded her sagaciously, then smiled.
“I see you have a compulsion for honesty, Miss Serannon. Why don’t you tell me of how it came to be that you bear your mother’s orb ahead of time. I presume that is part of the tale Maybelle would have you tell?” At May’s nod, he returned an expectant gaze to Tabitha.
She began her tale, beginning with the first night in Phantom Acres. King Mellar’s attention never left her during the telling, and he made encouraging comments from time to time. It had become easier to talk of the events, though it still pained her deeply to relive the memories. She told the King everything, of the song she had sung, of the Ring she now owned, of the Riddler, the ashes of her home and the race from the Shadowcaster. When the river of her tale had finally run its course, and washed her up on the shore of Stormhaven, Tabitha’s voice trailed off. King Mellar rose from his desk and came around to stand beside Tabitha’s chair.
“Don’t get up,” he commanded, laying a gentle hand on her head as she made to rise. “You have been very brave, and you must be commended for enduring, and telling the tale so honestly.”
“I think she has more than a right to be commended, Mellar. She has a right to demand justice on this Shadowcaster, though I know she is too shy to ask it.”
“The wheels have already been set in motion for that, Maybelle,” he remarked, seeming to take no offence at the Lady’s direct approach. “It was not to talk about the weather that Captain Steed of First Light came to me yesterday. His tidings were dark, for three of his men were killed by the same man. Justice shall be swift, of that be certain. The Swordmaster t
racks this criminal as we speak. I shall not relent until he is found, and executed.”
Tabitha looked up to her King. Their eyes met for a time. When the King withdrew his hand, he took an immense weight from her shoulders. Justice would be done.
The King turned to May. “Something else the Captain spoke of makes me deeply worried. What I tell you now does not leave these four walls. I will not have the panic spread, but I believe you have a right to know this, Tabitha, for a fuller understanding of the events. The Swords were downed not by the Shadowcaster, but by his beast, a beast whose only name could be a Morgloth.”
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed May. “The Morgloth are beasts of the legends, the time of the Forming. They are a fantasy! No, Mellar, tell me this isn’t true.”
“I trust this Captain, and his report was clear. This Shadowcaster has found a way to raise a demon. The beast tore through trained soldiers like a wolf through hens. Only the Swordmaster appeared to have any effect against it.”
“But surely it is not raised from some Underworld, Mellar! It must be a big bear, or some illusion of his magic.”
“The Captain was quite specific, Maybelle. The beast was summoned from a circle in the floor of his cell, where before there had been nothing. A beast standing taller than a man, with black wings, and a lust for blood. A beast with a head like a long melon, skin as black as ink. A Morgloth.”
A stunned silence filled the room. King Mellar sank into his chair. He held Tabitha’s eye.
“Now that you understand what a threat he is to the realm, you know how fierce my intent to capture this man is. I shall not abide such a fiend in Eyri. Rest assured he shall find justice soon.”
If anyone else had suggested Morgloth to Tabitha, she would have laughed at the notion. But this was the King of Eyri, and the weight of his words brooked no questioning.
Oh, Mother, what did you face?
“Justice does nothing to bring joy to the heart,” the King announced, “and of that you are sorely in need, Tabitha. I would like to give you a gift, something to cherish and lift your spirits, if only for a while.”
“I don’t need a gift, your Highness. I’m glad for the sanctuary of Stormhaven.”
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 32