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

by Greg Hamerton

  Tabitha was sure that the Shadowcaster wouldn’t surface. He had been under too long to survive, and the wet patch where his head had struck the rocks was clearly visible.

  She was still stunned that she had harnessed the Light essence. She hadn’t really expected sprites to come to her desperate summoning, but she had tried nonetheless. She knew how to gather the Light—she had witnessed her mother’s spells all of her life. But she had never suspected that the sprites would come to her own hand, so soon and in such great numbers. Suddenly, her hand had been filled with Light essence. The scrolls had shown her how to use it. Yet even that violence had not been enough. She had been driven to use her voice.

  She had felt the effect of the Shiver directly, the way the note had reached out, touched everything around her, linking her to the Morgloth. She had been so focused on the beast, at the end, that she had not concentrated on the Shadowcaster at all. Yet it was as if they were inseparable parts of a union. When her note and the Swordmaster’s blade had converged on the Morgloth’s head, she had heard a small shattering sound from the Shadowcaster. She knew that her note had affected him deeply. He had fled, and leapt from the road.

  And then the Morgloth’s severed head had tumbled towards her. She had recoiled from the horror of its black blood spilling over the road. Carnage littered the Kingsbridge. Three men lay dead on the road, their necks torn open from behind. The flaming skeleton of the carriage threw smoke to the wind. She had stumbled away, in the Shadowcaster’s footsteps, to the point where he had jumped. There her legs had given way, and her lyre had tumbled to the ground beside her.

  The surface of the lake held only the white wound of his plunge—the Shadowcaster must have sunk like a stone. The water was deep, and nothing had risen to the surface except a few pink bubbles.

  The waves washed all traces of the event away.

  It was over.

  “It is hard to wish that soul a peaceful afterlife,” someone said beside her. Tabitha turned away from the lake at last. The young Lightgifter was standing close, his blue eyes on the lake. He had an honest face. He turned towards Tabitha.

  “You have a powerful voice,” he said.

  “I had no voice, until you cast the Healall,” Tabitha answered, her thoughts finding the here-and-now at last. “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “I knew it was needed.” His eyes slid away briefly, as if to hide something private, but then he shrugged and smiled. “Your voice—I was afraid my Lightstone was going to shatter as well,” he said. “Though that would have been preferable to facing the Morgloth.”

  Tabitha tossed her head towards where the beast lay on the road behind her. She couldn’t bear to turn. “Is that the first time you’ve seen—it?” she asked.

  He nodded a few times.

  “Me too,” Tabitha whispered, leaving the rest of her thoughts unspoken. She hugged her knees close.

  “I was terrified when it turned on us,” the young Gifter said. “I’m glad it was Glavenor and not me who had to wield that sword. I would have dropped it and run.”

  Just to hear that she was not alone in her terror made her feel better. The legend had come to life, a nightmare incarnated. She knew it would be weeks before she ceased to see the creature’s wings spread wide, its gaping maw closing on her. Within her mind the Morgloth dived upon her, over and over, despite the fact that the Swordmaster had slain it.

  The young Gifter extended a hand. “I am Ashley Logán. You must be Tabitha Serannon.”

  Tabitha was caught by surprise. She reached up to take his hand. It was dry and warm.

  “How do you know?” she asked. “I’ve never met you, have I?”

  “We’ve been following the trail of the Shadowcaster. If we’d known he would pursue you so hard, we would have come directly to Stormhaven, and not wasted time in Fendwarrow. We were at your farm,” he ended. “I am so sorry.”

  Tabitha nodded to let him know it was all right.

  The other two Lightgifters came up behind Ashley then—a dignified elderly lady, and a stern bearded man, both wearing smudged white robes.

  They’ve been riding with Garyll. That must be hard travelling.

  “Tabitha, this is Sister Grace, and Father Keegan,” Ashley said.

  “Hullo.” Tabitha didn’t trust her legs to stand reliably yet. She was ash-streaked and dishevelled; she hoped they didn’t care. She bowed her head respectfully.

  “Your friend the Lady asked after you,” Sister Grace said.

  “May! Is she all right?” Tabitha asked, stung by a pang of guilt. She hadn’t even gone to search for May. Instead, she had stumbled to the edge of the road, and had succumbed to shock.

  “She was burned,” said Father Keegan, gruffly. “She broke an arm when she fell from the coach. We healed her as best we could, but she’ll need much rest. We cast a Sleep on her, to better aid the healing.”

  “She’s on the cart,” said Grace, pointing. A flat-bed was negotiating its way around the Morgloth, and it bore a bundled form behind the driver. Another cart followed, commandeered by one of the Swords, laden with the bodies of the fallen.

  “Come! It’s time we pressed on for Stormhaven,” Ashley said gently. He offered his hand to Tabitha once again. She rose to her feet. But she didn’t want to leave without at least thanking Garyll for his sudden aid. He was still down on the rocks.

  “I was going to the Dovecote,” she commented.

  “We’ll be going there just as soon as we’ve met with the King,” Grace reassured her. “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Thank you,” Tabitha replied. “I just need to—I just need a moment.” She picked her lyre up from the road, and brushed it off. Her eyes were not on the instrument.

  Glavenor turned from the water’s edge, and scaled the Kingsbridge. It seemed he had finally accepted that the Shadowcaster was gone. There was a fire behind his eyes when he crested the rise, but Tabitha was sure his expression softened as he approached her.

  “Miss Serannon,” he said, bowing low. “We are all in your debt, I believe.”

  She was swallowed by his powerful gaze. “I should thank you, for saving us.” She shuddered. “You killed the Morgloth.”

  “And you held its feet when it counted most. I have never heard a voice before that could set my sword to shaking.”

  “It’s a special note,” Tabitha said lamely. She couldn’t explain how the Ring had given her the ear to find its perfected form, how she’d felt her voice reaching through the universe in that moment.

  A smile spread across his severe features. “Aye, I have felt its bite before. It’s a special singer who sings it. I’m glad that we came when we did, and not later.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Tabitha said, truly grateful.

  Garyll dipped his head.

  A mounted patrol galloped toward them from the city, forestalling a question Tabitha wished to ask. It would be good to hear from Garyll’s lips that the Shadowcaster was dead.

  “Swordmaster!” the lead rider greeted, saluting as he drew rein. “We saw the beast, but didn’t know where it would strike until we saw the smoke.” The rest of the patrol of ten reined in. The horses were lathered with sweat. The men stared at the bier of Swords.

  Glavenor returned the salute of the leader.

  “Never mind! It is done. Your men can be put to good use. I need a patrol set up along the length of the Kingsbridge on this side, on the water’s edge.”

  “What should we search for?”

  “The Shadowcaster named Kirjath Arkell. If his body should float to the surface, I want it brought to me.”

  “That is not possible, sir.”

  “Why not?” There was a tight note of warning in Garyll’s voice.

  “Sir, I just left them interrogating the Shadowcaster Arkell in the Swordhouse in Stormhaven. We captured him this morning at the City Gates. You needn’t search for him here.”

  “No!” Garyll asserted. “I have just battled him here! I know that man,
I have held him on my blade before. Arkell fell from the bridge not a half-hour ago, right here!”

  “And when I left Stormhaven not a half-hour ago, he was still in the interrogation room, as he has been all morning,” asserted the rider.

  Tabitha could see that the rider was nervous of defying the Swordmaster, but he held to his story and did not waver.

  A questioning look settled on Garyll’s brow.

  “What does your Arkell look like, and what has he said?”

  “Black robes, a badly-shaven scarred head. He has a web of black magic which doesn’t seem to leave his body. He doesn’t say anything, save to repeat his name, and that he knows the whereabouts of Prince Bevn. That answer alone is the only reason we keep him alive. He seems a bit weak-minded, sir.”

  “Weak-minded?”

  “He cries a lot, sir.”

  “Can there be two of them?” Glavenor asked aloud. “This is something I must see! Your horse, Sword.”

  “Sir?” The man dismounted unsteadily. Glavenor was atop the steed and turning it about an instant later.

  “I’ll see you all in Stormhaven!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We have business with the King, later.”

  Then he was off, in a thunder of hooves.

  They followed, at the pace of two wagons, one with a heavy load.

  It was then that Tabitha discovered another bitter cost to the victory on the Kingsbridge. Within the burned husk of the carriage was a handful of silver and gold coin, too hot to handle without the help of the Swords’ gloved hands. They collected the scraps of her life into an upturned helm. There was nothing to find, except the coins.

  Her mother’s song-scrolls had been burned to ashes. Despite her chagrin, she sensed a kind of completion. Everything that had begun at Phantom Acres had been ended.

  Her parents had been avenged.

  * * *

  King Mellar’s study was crowded.

  The King himself was seated behind his desk. Besides Tabitha and the three Lightgifters, there were three others in the private audience. A Sword who Tabitha recognised as Captain Steed from First Light sat upon a stool. Lethin Tarrok lingered in the background, not yet dismissed. Garyll Glavenor paced the floor.

  “The woman was a decoy, your Highness,” Garyll stated. “As soon as we employed the Gifters here to break the illusion, we could see she was not what she had seemed to be. She wears the orb of the Lightgifters.”

  “Did you recognise her?” the King asked of Father Keegan.

  “Not at first, but it didn’t take long to figure it out. Hosanna is one of our own, she rode ahead and was abducted by the Shadowcaster Arkell three days ago, we believe. She must have endured a horror in his presence.”

  “I had not expected to care about our captive.” King Mellar said soberly. “His—her head was going to fall at sunset. Very lucky for Hosanna you returned, Glavenor. How is she? Can she be questioned about the Shadowcaster?”

  Garyll shook his head. “She is distraught. She shivers, she does not speak, and she makes no eye contact. The Shadowcaster has left too much ravage in his wake.”

  “You ended that scourge today,” the King reminded him.

  Garyll shook his head, and his jaw clenched tight before he spoke.

  “We were there, right there in Fendwarrow! He had this woman in the same inn we used, and he evaded us. Ever since First Light I have chased him with one purpose—to drive my blade into his rotten heart. The way he took his life today denied me even that. And the way he set up his attack makes us look like fools. With respect, your Highness. I take it upon my shoulders that the Sword were so slack. Somewhere, their training has gone awry.”

  “I do not blame the Sword for their weakness against the Morgloth, Glavenor. From what I’ve heard it is a terrible beast to face.”

  “It was the man who was more dangerous than the Morgloth. He threw the woman at the gates because he wanted the sentries to lower their guard, which must have taken place. Miss Serannon says Arkell must have been inside the carriage before it left the Swordhouse this morning. How does a felon find his way into the city, and into that exact carriage, undetected, without a severe lack of vigilance by the Sword? Unless he had help from a traitor.”

  They considered his assertion in silence. It seemed to grow hotter in the room.

  “I found another servant of the Dark in the city,” blurted Tarrok suddenly from behind them, “I had him arrested.”

  Tabitha turned in her chair to look at Lethin. He held his head erect, and his expression was indignant, but there was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, so fine Tabitha doubted anyone else had noticed. Then again, she had seen him sweating every time they had met, so maybe it was his usual state.

  “This man had evaded the sentries, for I found no record of him in the register at the City Gates. He is an admitted accomplice to the Shadowcasters, and his presence has been noted at scenes of recent trouble. He must have shown Arkell a secret route into Stormhaven. They must have plotted this attack on poor Tabitha together.”

  The insincerity in Tarrok’s eyes brushed her like his faint scent of garlic. Tabitha felt her sense for truth being twisted past its limits. The man was lying, but what part of his statement was untrue, she couldn’t tell.

  “Who was this man?” Garyll asked, his attention hawk-like.

  “His name is Twardy Zarost, though he claims the title of the Riddler,” answered Tarrok, somewhat smugly. “I believe you’ve run into him before.”

  Garyll cursed, then shot a concerned glance at Tabitha.

  She struggled to find her own position on the Riddler. He had seemed to be a friend, at first. He claimed to never lie, yet if his words in the gardens were true, he had branded himself as an accomplice to the Dark.

  “Is this not the same man you spoke of?” the King asked Tabitha.

  “Yes. But he helped me escape from the Shadowcaster in First Light. He can’t be working for the Dark.” She turned again to Tarrok. “He set up the trap that caught Arkell.”

  “A trap which was not too hard for the Shadowcaster to escape from, I hear,” Tarrok retorted archly.

  Garyll stiffened. “I’ll not trust the man, but I don’t think that is fair,” he cut in. “He escaped that trap because I did not act swiftly enough.”

  “What if you had not arrived when you did, Swordmaster? Would Arkell not have got away with ease?”

  Garyll did not answer that, but Tabitha knew the question made him wonder, and that was all the answer Tarrok needed to drive his point home.

  “Was he really aiding you, Miss Serannon, or was he just trying to get you away from those who could protect you?”

  “But he took me to Southwind, it was his idea to send me here with Mulrano!”

  “And that fisherman is a known traitor. It’s a wonder you survived that night.”

  Tabitha felt the cold teeth of doubt gnawing at her belly. She had survived that night on the lake because the Shadowcaster’s canoe had sunk. Were it not for that, she would have been caught. A disturbing possibility slithered through her thoughts. Zarost could have been trying to get her out of the way. It could have been by accident alone that she had evaded the Shadowcaster on the lake.

  “Hadn’t he already found you today, wasn’t he trying to accost you when I intervened?” Tarrok asked. His eyes had a fervid cast to them.

  He had the ability to make her feel pawed over with his sweaty hands, even though he stood beyond arm’s reach. She wished his words didn’t make so much sense, for then she could spurn his attention.

  “No!” she said. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “And what was he doing, if not accosting you?”

  “He came to warn me, and urged me to leave –” her voice trailed off, another terrible doubt forming in her mind. “He said I should leave Stormhaven. I told him about the carriage, and he suggested it might be a good idea.” A hollow nausea rose as she realised how she might have been manipulated. It had been a great enough shock to
witness Zarost admitting to his involvement with the Dark when Tarrok had confronted him in the gardens. But to think he had been actively working to trap her was something far worse. She couldn’t find her tongue.

  All his assistance, was it just to gain my trust?

  “I think I shall have a chat with this Riddler when we are done,” said Garyll, sharply. “Where is he?”

  “The old dungeons, Swordmaster,” Tarrok answered proudly.

  “I shall learn of his exact involvement with the Dark. If he refuses to speak, he shall spend a long time down there.”

  “Would it not be better if he were dead?” asked Tarrok.

  “What use to us would he be then?” demanded Glavenor. “No, Tarrok, you overstep your mark as advisor. Justice is my domain. You are commended for apprehending him.” The Swordmaster gave Tarrok a curt nod.

  “You are all to be commended!” cut in King Mellar. “You all played a part in today’s victory. But that is not why you have been assembled.” Mellar turned toward the three Lightgifters. “The Swordmaster has reported the grave tidings from beyond Fendwarrow. I don’t doubt his word for one moment, but he suggested I hear your accounts as well. Tell me what you found of the Shadowcaster’s realm.”

  Tabitha sat bolt upright. Another realm? A kingdom of Shadowcasters?

  Sister Grace began. “Their leader called it Ravenscroft. I saw a force of fifty, all black-robed, all wielding the Dark strain of the essence. The Darkmaster claims to rule a separate kingdom, as if he is not within the borders of Eyri, or subject to your rule, Highness.”

  Father Keegan grunted in agreement, but didn’t have anything to add.

  “It looked like it’s been established for years,” offered the young Gifter Ashley. “There were tilled fields, a hard-packed road, and a mighty-looking entrance to a keep. I didn’t look at the valley too long, for the Shadowcasters surrounded us. I was afraid, Highness. I could almost believe they have the talent to weave fear with their essence. It was a terrifying vale to be in.”