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

by Greg Hamerton

  He knew. The bearer of the Ring was in Stormhaven. The same vile magic he had witnessed from Fendwarrow, the same awful voice he’d tracked to the Lightgifter’s farm. The people nearby did not seem to hear her.

  The song rose in pitch and power. Kirjath tore two jurrum leaves to shreds, and ground them between his teeth. The pain hardly eased.

  She must be close to the Gates, to affect me so strongly.

  A mere girl!

  His plan was simple. Wrap himself in Darkness. Rush the guard, slip through in the confusion. The mists would do the rest. He wouldn’t need long to follow the clear trail of magic to its source. Once he had the girl, he could raise the Morgloth, and cut a path clear to the Gates again. The more he chewed on the jurrum, the more sense the plan made.

  The Ring shall be mine!

  The City Gates loomed out of the mists, with a lengthy queue of people, coaches and animals. The Dark essence he had kept in abeyance surged to his hands. He wove it to a dense web of Shadow, cloaking himself and the road on either side of him in gloom. Animals shied as he passed, and people called out in surprise, but he didn’t care. They knew nothing of his intent, these Eyrians. Few would understand the sudden darkness that swept past them. He watched the Swords, with their silly little blades and thin steel helms.

  Freeze them, Decay them, let them taste Despair. I have enough essence to take them all!

  He strode forward.

  But he didn’t make it to the Gates. The current of sound that he had been wading against became a raging torrent, then a flood, then a single, high note which ripped through his mind like a ragged blade.

  He fell to the road. His essence scattered into the mists.

  Pain ruled his world.

  When the agony eased, and he became aware of his surroundings again, he realised the danger. The Swords were not more than fifty paces ahead of him, on the limit of the mists.

  “Are you all right, mister?” a youth shouted out. A crowd was gathering. The Swords would be coming soon, he knew. His thoughts were in turmoil, tortured by the echoes of that terrible high note. He doubted that he would have enough focus to wield the scattered essence.

  Kirjath gathered his red robes, and fled. He broke left from the road, and ran for the Seep, retreating along the course of his morning’s advance. Each step carried a separate curse.

  There was no sound of pursuit, but he ran hard nonetheless. He only slowed when he was well past the lone temple on the eastern corner of the Isle and into the reeds and marshes of the wastelands beyond. His way to the Scrags was fuelled by the bitter taste of fury. She had done something to him with her song. He felt ill.

  * * *

  Though his captive moaned and screamed under his hands when he returned to the boat, she didn’t help to purge his anger. The blond Lightgifter had an unripe smell about her. She had soon screamed herself hoarse within her gag. Soon after that, she was slack and listless in the keel.

  Hunger gnawed at his belly.

  All he could find in the inlet to eat were the fat brown mudfish. He coaxed them to the surface by tossing insects onto the water to drown. Then he used a Breaking spell to paralyse them. Working with the Dark helped to restore his confidence, but the anger remained. The fish were impossible to scale properly with his single functioning hand. When he bit into them, they tasted of grease and weed.

  The only thing which was good about the day was the mist, which did not retreat from the inlet where he hid. He wracked his brain for a way to get to the girl. He was running out of time.

  The longer she was left with the Ring, the more power she gained.

  He sent a Morrigán flying over Stormhaven, searching for his prey, but he knew he would have a long wait. There were many places to search, and many people on the King’s Isle.

  22. SHADOWS AND SCENTS

  “Beware the failed man,

  for he has nothing to lose.”—Zarost

  The morning began as it had the day before—a greasy mist clung to the lake. The Morrigán brought good news. The girl had been found. She slept in a room on the third floor of a lodge, close to the central court of the city. The bird hadn’t been able to breach the window to gain a closer look, but from the vision it brought, Kirjath had been sure enough. There lay his quarry, there lay the girl, the ring bearer, thief. His thoughts quickened into action. The night had been long, and its quiet had yielded a way to enter the city. The boat was tied up nearby, tilting on the slack water.

  “Kneel,” he commanded. The woman pushed herself up onto all fours. She had learned to obey his voice.

  “Water,” she asked, in a broken whisper.

  “Come here bitch, put your head in my lap.”

  He denied her the water. A drink could be her reward for good behaviour, should she hold still. She crawled to him over the crumbled rocks and pebbles. The way she moved displayed much of her pain. She wouldn’t hold out much longer, without food or healing.

  No matter. She was only needed to perform one last trick.

  She dropped her head against his thighs. He took her matted hair in his bad hand, clumped as much as he could in his curling fingers, and pulled her head back. Her eyes went wide when she saw the blade he held in his left.

  Kirjath savoured that expression for a long moment, but when he brought the knife down, it was her hair he cut, right at the base against her scalp. He hacked and hacked, throwing handfulls of blonde hair aside. It took a long time, and his wounds began to weep. He didn’t cut her too much, considering.

  When she was shaved, he ordered her naked. The red robe he threw into the ashes of the night’s fire. It smoked, and blackened, but did not catch flame. He kicked it around and walked it into the dead coals, until most of the red had become a dirty black. He tossed it back to the woman, but she didn’t seem to care enough to dress. That was a change from the early days.

  He stood close behind her, and barked in her ear, “Be proud, wastrel. Today, you are a Shadowcaster. Now dress, and walk with me!”

  Their pace along the shore of the lake was made slow by the woman’s hobbling gait. She went faster after he allowed her a drink. Kirjath even gave her some jurrum to ease her pain, though he had to force the leaf between her teeth, and make her chew it.

  He led her into the water as they passed the stinking Seep, to avoid contact with the patrols. They remained hidden with a minimal use of Dark essence. Kirjath called a halt just short of the Kingsbridge, in the shallows, concealed in mist.

  A thrill passed through him, a potent mix of lust and fear.

  He spun the spell of the Gateway on the shallow water. The Gifter stiffened, her reddened eyes widened in her ash-streaked face. Her head was a mess of chopped bristles, raw skin, and clotted blood. She would do well today. He pulled her cowl over her head.

  “Do you want to be rid of me? Do you want to earn your escape?” he asked.

  She was transfixed by the circle of the Gateway, yet pulled her gaze away and looked up into Kirjath’s face. There was a mix of horror and hope in those eyes. Good. She still wished to live.

  He whispered her part in the plan to her, and she listened to every word. Then she started off at a walk for the Gates of Stormhaven.

  She would perform, today. She wanted her freedom badly enough.

  He created a Morrigán to follow her, to bring word of what transpired. It croaked away into the mist.

  He waited beside the circling Dark essence that led to the Morgloth. It wasn’t yet the time to call the beast, but his pulse raced at the thought of what was to come. A terrifying plan, but necessary. There was no other way.

  The Morrigán returned, at length. It grasped his outstretched arm with claws that stung for only a moment. The spell dissolved, and the vision was released.

  A black-robed tattered figure approached the City Gates. The queuing people drew away as it passed. Three brave Swords came charging down from the Gates, blades drawn. The figure shouted, “I know of Prince Bevn!” The men were well-trained,
for when they felled the figure, they used the hilts of their swords. The Shadowcaster was carried away into Stormhaven, doubtless to the Swordhouse for interrogation. It had all gone perfectly, according to his plan. They would not be expecting another Arkell in the city. That was all the advantage he could hope for.

  He gazed at the dark circle.

  “Morgloth, from your hell be born, your master summons you.”

  He clenched his stomach in anticipation. It had to be done.

  The demon rose from the Gateway, its wings beat the cool mist air. It was always the same Morgloth which responded to his call, the one which now bore the scar of service on its right wing. Its animal mind was a swelling, urgent pressure which thrust up through Kirjath’s thoughts, aggravating his lingering doubts. He curbed the Morgloth’s power by dominating the demon. He shared his immediate plan with the beast and felt the Morgloth consider and understand.

  It was too late to turn back.

  The demon flew away, then it turned, swooping low. Kirjath spread his arms. He stood straight and tall in the water, facing the lake, into the approaching nightmare of black, ancient evil. The Morgloth extended its legs, as if to strike Kirjath with the barbed heels. There was a hard impact.

  The Morgloth’s legs closed and linked at his back. Kirjath grasped the demon vigorously. He was lifted, wrenched from the water like a fish by an eagle. The Morgloth strained above him, beating the thick air with heavy strokes. Kirjath’s feet dragged over earth, and he commanded the Morgloth to veer over the water once more. If the beast failed to lift him clear, he could not afford to be dropped so close to the Gates of Stormhaven. The Morgloth obeyed, and seemed to ease its flight as their speed increased. Kirjath circled them off the shore, allowing the beast to build height with each spiralling turn. A surge of triumph rushed through his veins. Despite the torn wing, his Morgloth was succeeding.

  Don’t look down, he reminded himself, but the very words of the prohibition tugged his eyes downwards. He clutched on to the black legs with renewed ferocity. There was nothing below, a sickening, swirling mass of whitish grey, just the same as to the sides, and above. Water streamed from his boots and blew away in the wind. He hoped the demon knew which way was up. He commanded the Morgloth to greater heights. The mist had to end somewhere.

  They burst through to the bright morning above. Sunlight glared off a carpet of shattered white. Every beam of light seemed to be reflected directly at Kirjath, piercing his head with the brilliant pain of a thousand needles. In the distance, golden spires and dark walls thrust up through the mist. The Morgloth, affected directly by his master’s pain, if not his own, faltered in the air, and they fell through the canopy to the gloom below.

  Kirjath screamed within his mind. They spun, but the demon was strong, and recovered after a few stalled beats.

  They resumed level flight. Kirjath ground his teeth. He could not afford to lose control, not now; not ever. He had no illusions about what the demon would do if he was to lose his mental stranglehold of its animal psyche. There was a long, deadly fall to the ground below, and the demon would relish every second of its tormentor’s end. It obeyed only because it had to. He collected his thoughts, pressing down on the beast’s sphere of mental influence which had already enlarged itself within its host.

  To the city, he commanded. The golden spires had given him all the bearings he needed. The demon winged silently through the moisture.

  * * *

  Tabitha had to lengthen her stride to keep up with Maybelle Westerbrook. The Lady of Ceremony was in buoyant spirits. May had surprised Tabitha by coming to the Boarding and inviting her on a brisk morning walk to begin the day. They walked through the Upper District estates, where all the noble homesteads of Stormhaven were arrayed amongst orchards, tall trees and rolling lawns. Compared to the compactness of the Lower District, the noble houses practically lounged in their luxurious estates. They saw very few people, though Tabitha knew that elsewhere, merchant’s doors were being swung open already.

  Tabitha had wanted to bring her lyre on the walk, not because she intended to play it, but because she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Truth be told, she had slept with it under her pillow, one hand on the strings. She’d fallen in love with Yzell’s instrument, the King’s present, for all that it was, and for all that it represented. But she had not wanted to seem too sentimental while accompanying the Lady of Ceremony, so in the end she had left it under her bed.

  “It’s a most beautiful thing, May,” she explained.

  “Strangle-oak is rare indeed,” May commented. “There’s a history to those trees. Do you know it?”

  “I heard they grow in their own glades, because they strangle the roots of everything close. I’ve heard it said that they live so long because they’re protected by spirits.”

  “I doubt it’s the spirits’ doing,” May said, chuckling. “The wood is seldom felled because it is so hard, and so many tools are broken along the way, from cutting to crafting. The strangle-oaks are left alone, and they grow old, very old. There are enough of them around Llury, in the Great Forest. But legend tells that in the earlier years of Eyri, convicted felons were hung upon the strangle-oak. Tree of Justice, it was called, though that name has been forgotten. It was said that if the man were innocent, the bough he was suspended from would break and he would fall to the ground. That custom passed away long ago, yet the memory of the fruit which those strangle-oaks once bore seems to have lingered in the tavern tales.”

  Tree of Justice.

  “Did boughs ever break?”

  May shrugged. “I doubt it, for a weak strangle-oak is a thing rarer than silence in Stormhaven. Every part of the tree is as strong as iron. It must have cost old Yzell dearly for the wood, and taken weeks to craft a lyre from it. I suppose he does receive the King’s gold for that work now, but he must like you, to have offered such a prized piece.”

  “It’s so perfectly formed, May, I feel honoured just holding it.”

  “He’s an exceptional craftsman, Yzell. That’s why Mellar—ah—the King chooses him above all others.”

  Tabitha yearned to return to her room and to play the lyre again.

  Strangle-oak. It must have been greatly feared by wrong-doers.

  * * *

  The pressure of the beast was beginning to fray his nerves. Never before had Kirjath held the demon at bay for so long, summoned but not allowed to feed. It had borne him safely over the wall, and was well hidden in a yard close to the boarding house, but it was not content to stay there. The Morgloth pushed fiercely against its mental prison, testing, waiting for the moment of weakness, when it could break through its Master’s domination. Kirjath sweated with the strain of concentration; it was stuffy behind the bedroom curtains. Holding the beast was hard enough. Holding it at a distance was arduous.

  Let the beast work up an appetite.

  He was not ready. Using the Morgloth now would prove nothing, merely draw unwanted attention to his actions. He had to capture the girl. Once he had the Ring in his hands, the Morgloth would buy him freedom from the King’s Isle. He would reward it with a feeding frenzy.

  The girl’s absence from her rooms was beginning to worry him. He wanted this business over with.

  Shatter and blast the spires of Stormhaven! Shall I have to settle this matter in the streets?

  He was about to create a Morrigán when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He drew a hushed breath. The footsteps drew nearer, creaking the floorboards one by one. Perfect, she was alone. He whispered to the motes at hand, readied them for casting another spell. The footsteps entered the room, then came really close, not an arm’s reach from the curtains. Something was dragged from beneath the bed. Kirjath felt the tightening of his stomach and groin as he anticipated the strike. Then he tossed the fabric aside with his left hand, and threw the motes with his right.

  “Silence!” he commanded. The spell struck the person before him with convincing force. But it was not the girl.

&
nbsp; A tubby man in a yellow robe stood at the foot of the bed, bulging eyes in a damp face. He had been rummaging in a leather bag, but dropped it to the floor. His slack-jawed terror became more obvious as Kirjath stepped close. The colour faded from the man’s skin.

  “Where is the girl?” Kirjath snarled. The man jumped, and began to back away, as he mouthed at the air. Of course. He couldn’t utter a word. Kirjath cast the more complex spell of Domination, that the man would neither run nor act against his will, then recalled the motes from the spell of Silence.

  “Now speak, damn you! Where is the girl?”

  “She—she went walking with her friend,” the man stuttered. “She’ll be back s-s-soon.”

  “What are you doing here?” Kirjath demanded.

  “I—I was going to leave her a note. She is to leave in a carriage for Levin.”

  Kirjath knew that look. He sent more motes his way, intensifying the Domination. It took immense concentration not to lose his hold on the Morgloth with the distraction of the matter at hand.

  “Do not lie to me. It will bring your death.”

  “She keeps gold in her bag. I came to steal it,” the man squeaked.

  “Good. What is your name?”

  “Tarrok. Lethin Tarrok, my lord. I’m on your side, I work for the Darkmaster too.”

  Kirjath pulled a knife from his belt. Sometimes a blade was the easiest way to assure silence.

  “Stay, Lethin Tarrok,” he commanded. Held in the grasp of Domination, the man could not break and run. If the man’s eyes protruded any further, they would surely pop from their sockets and dangle on their threads.

  “But you—you were captured by the Swords this morning!” Tarrok gasped.

  Pride swelled in Kirjath’s chest. They had been fooled. He could afford a moment to savour that knowledge.

  “That was not I,” answered Kirjath. He put the point of the blade behind the man’s neck, at the base of his skull. The less blood now, the better. The neck was wet with sweat.