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

by Greg Hamerton

  Sister Grace looked to Ashley before addressing the King. “It was night, and I was tired, but I believe I felt the same. A spell of despair.”

  “That’s a part which my Swordmaster omitted from his report,” the King said with a dry smile. “Though I have heard this reported from Fendwarrow as well. They must have powerful spells of concealment as well, for their comings and goings to have passed unnoticed for so long.”

  Tabitha knew her eyes were too wide, but she couldn’t contain her alarm.

  A kingdom of Shadowcasters?

  “You mean there’s a whole colony of them?” Tabitha asked nervously, not wanting to intrude, but unable to contain her incredulity. “Where are they hidden?”

  “Ravenscroft is far above Fendwarrow, in the mountains,” answered Garyll. “The trail passes through a waterfall close to Fendwarrow, a trick that deceived me completely until now. I’m an idiot! It must have been the drain for all stolen goods, and a supply of many things. No wonder that I could never find the source of the rot in Fendwarrow, the root of its evil. Now we know—there is a community at the end of that trail, and a sizeable force of Shadowcasters. Who knows how many more there are in that vale, under the rule of the man who calls himself the Darkmaster?”

  King Mellar scratched his head, then removed his crown and set it on the desk. “What is his intention, Garyll?”

  “What puzzles me, your Highness, is that they could have stopped us earlier on the trail; I’m certain we were noticed. With their numbers, they had the upper hand, yet they allowed us to push in all the way to their hidden valley. It was as if the Darkmaster wished us to see it, wished to announce his presence. He declared a desire to trade, though he must know how ridiculous that sounds, when he defies to acknowledge you as his King in the same breath.”

  “So he incites us to react, then,” the King declared. “What would your immediate response to his provocation be?”

  “To send a strong force of Swords into that valley, and clear it out. It is a mire of evil, I agree with young Ashley here when he says you can feel it when you near that place. No good can come from these Shadowcasters and their Dark ways. Those who conceal their activities must be up to something suspicious. We must not hesitate to crush the Shadowcasters.”

  Tabitha held her breath for the King’s response. This was war talk. The King steepled his fingers.

  “If they are all the same, Swordmaster, then I agree with you. The murderer Arkell was clearly a criminal, and his death was justified many times over. There is surely more evil in Ravenscroft, but I don’t think it would be wise to march in and lay waste to them, until we understand fully what they are capable of.”

  “What do you suggest, your Highness? By the Darkmaster’s admission, they all commit treason against you.” Garyll looked ready to swing his blade through a stone wall.

  “We must know if they have more of these Morgloth at their command.”

  The King’s words chilled her to the bone.

  “I saw many ravens,” said Ashley, “a spell like our messenger birds. Maybe the Morgloth is the same.”

  Father Keegan disagreed. “No, the Morgloth is a creature, not a construct of essence. If it were made of Dark, then our Light would begin to disrupt the pattern, yet our magic has no effect on it, our essence is absorbed by its skin like rain into parched earth. It may be summoned by a spell of essence, but it is a deadly beast itself.”

  “What if they have fifty, or a hundred of those beasts?” said the King. “It would be immeasurably worse than poking a hornets’ nest.”

  The sky would be full of Morgloth, a flying wave of death.

  The King continued. “I can’t bring that upon Eyri. We must devise a defence against the Morgloth, if we are to be wise. That is why I seek your counsel. You have all survived this beast.”

  “If another comes, I can slay it,” asserted Garyll with conviction.

  “That one beast, how many Swords did it kill before you took its head?”

  Glavenor paused, his expression darkened. “Six.”

  “In the Swordhouse,” Captain Steed interjected in his gravelly voice, “you had more effect than the others, Glavenor. There’s something about you, or your blade, that made the beast shy from your blows.”

  “I don’t think I have any special advantage,” Garyll said, “only my training with the sword. It was Miss Serannon here who had an effect on the beast. She brought it to its knees before I had swung my blade.”

  All eyes fell on Tabitha.

  “I just screamed, when it swooped on me,” she said, knowing that was not the whole story, but not knowing how to explain how the Ring had cleared her senses to find the power that lay waiting in the perfected Shiver.

  “Yet when I healed you, you sang higher,” said Ashley. “There was something that ran through all the air around you then. I could feel the power even from where I stood.”

  They need the truth in this.

  “There’s a song, called the Glee of Genesis,” she answered. “I took the high note from that, the Shiver. It’s the note I use to shatter glass in the taverns. I gave it my all, and sang it as pure as I could. It seemed to work. The Shiver seems to confuse the Morgloth, or cause it pain, I can’t tell which.”

  “This—Shiver—is it a spell, or something every singer can do?” King Mellar asked.

  “I suppose it has a kind of magic to it, but not like the Lightgifter’s art. It’s a note, a special one, it’s fills the air with a vibration. Something about it upsets the Morgloth. That’s why Garyll, I mean, Swordmaster Glavenor can harm it. He has the power of the Shiver.”

  Garyll looked at her sharply. “I do not.”

  “But you do! Your blade makes the same note.”

  A sudden realisation dawned on Garyll’s face. He moved aside, drew his sword from its scabbard and described a slow arc around his body. There was not enough space to complete a circle though, despite the Gifters and Captain Steed shying from the blade. They rose, and shuffled to stand beside King Mellar’s desk, allowing the Swordmaster the room to swing his weapon.

  The sword ripped through the air. Garyll swung it in a circle above his head, his grip shifting to contain the force. Tabitha and the others flinched every time the blade swung in their direction. As the angle on his blade changed, so a shriek filled the King’s study, the howl of a banshee, but unsteady, surging from faint to loud. A piercing tone rang from the blade for an instant.

  “There. That’s the note!” Tabitha exclaimed.

  Garyll slowed the blade, and its blurred edge became sharp, then still before him. He looked excited. It was a strange manner for the Swordmaster of Eyri, but Tabitha had never seen him looking as handsome as he did in that moment.

  “Of course!” he declared. “There’s a form which I was trained in, a form called Dancing with the Demon, which uses the overhead strikes. I’d always thought the moves to be wasteful, big swirling circles and long exposed spins. But it was all to make the blade sing! Dancing with the Demon. Painfully clear now. The old masters must have known. Thank you, Tabitha.”

  He gave her a warm, heart-stopping smile.

  He had called her by her first name.

  “These holes, in the centre of the blade, I’d always thought them strange. But it’s the holes that create the sound, they train the wind to that piercing note.”

  “So,” said King Mellar, “we have a weapon.”

  “One weapon is hardly enough against a troop of Morgloth,” Father Keegan noted.

  But Tabitha had an idea, and as she considered it, the Ring warmed on her finger. It might just work. She followed the idea to its completion, visualised every Sword with the device, every Sword with a chance against the Morgloth. They had to try.

  “What if you drill the other blades out in the same way?”

  Garyll shook his head. “No, Tabitha, that would weaken them terribly. I don’t know how the smith forged this blade, but it is unique. A normal steel blade would split down the centre
if it had these holes.”

  Tabitha would not be diverted though. She could sense that the idea she held was vital. “What if Yzell made an instrument to reproduce the blade’s note?” she asked.

  There was a moment of silence. Lethin Tarrok was the first to break it. He looked more unhappy than ever. “What, shall we have all the soldiers setting their swords aside, and playing their lyres into battle?” he scoffed.

  The King cuffed him over the back of the head. “Miss Serannon is wiser than you think. Not lyres, no, it would have to be something small and light.”

  “A whistle, with the note of the Shiver,” said Tabitha.

  The King clapped his hands together. “Brilliant! Yes, this we must try. I shall set Yzell to the task at once. Tarrok!”

  “Certainly, your highness,” answered Lethin, somewhat sullenly, “I shall find him down in the bowels of the city.” He rounded the desk and passed close by Tabitha, offering her a pale leer before making for the door.

  She was glad to hear the door close behind him. A tension seemed to leave the room.

  “You know that my Bevn is still missing,” the King said quietly, mainly to Glavenor. “I fear –”

  Garyll nodded. “You fear he may be held by those in Ravenscroft.”

  “If you discover they hold my son, the war begins in that moment.”

  “Your Highness.” The Swordmaster met the King’s eyes for a long moment. Mellar’s face was creased with concern.

  “Glavenor, my son must not be hurt.”

  “So we must prepare for the worst,” said Glavenor. “I shall train the men on what they can expect, from what little I have learned.”

  “I think your men shall be expected, no matter how soon they go,” Mellar warned. “It’s up to you to make sure we can turn the surprise, so prepare your men well. But this challenge must be answered, I cannot let such a threat to Eyri lie, now that it is exposed.”

  “Are they such a threat, your Highness?” asked Father Keegan. “Is trade not an option? I am sure they are mostly an ordinary folk, and would have as little desire to die in a battle as I do. Surely you could negotiate?”

  “We do not negotiate with those who commit treason,” said Garyll in a clipped voice.

  “I understand your compassion, Father Keegan,” said King Mellar. “Your gentle training in the Light commends itself well to peace and healing. But there are times when one must act with a concern for the realm and not the individual. I shall not be the King who let Eyri be overrun by Morgloth, murderers and moral decay. No, these Shadowcasters have too much to answer for in Fendwarrow alone.”

  Keegan nodded, but said nothing.

  “They shall be given the opportunity to surrender,” King Mellar added. “There is something you could do to ensure mercy is present, however ruthless the battle becomes. Take word to your Rector, tell him that I seek the Lightgifter’s support for our Sword. Your skills may well be needed in earnest.”

  It looked to Tabitha as if the King was pressed deeper into his chair by the burden of rule. Yet even as she thought that, he set his shoulders, and rose, a sign that the audience was done.

  “Thank you, everyone, for your counsel, and your deeds today. I take strength from your victory.”

  They bowed in turn, and made their exits. As Tabitha passed the threshold, she heard the King address one of the Lightgifters behind her.

  “Sister Grace, how is May, the Lady of Ceremony?”

  “She will heal well, your Highness. She is strong.”

  “Thank the Creator for that. I shall come to see her when she wakes.”

  * * *

  The cool passages of the Palace slid by underfoot. The Swordmaster walked in step with her. His presence was large, and mighty. Tabitha didn’t know what to say; she wanted to say too much, yet nothing at all.

  “You answered a question I have pondered for years,” said Garyll. “The reason behind the shape of my blade was lost in the long succession of wielders before me. I never guessed that the blade was forged specifically for the Morgloth. I suppose it’s difficult to imagine such a beast until you see one. A week ago, I would have believed it a fantasy.”

  “Is that sword really Felltang, the one from the legend?” she said, indicating the weapon sheathed at his belt.

  “So they say,” answered Garyll, his broad hand touching the hilt. “It has been handed down from Swordmaster to Swordmaster through the ages, since the time before the Kings.”

  “Do you really think it was gifted by wizards, as the legend tells it?”

  The humour in Garyll’s face was mixed with sobriety.

  “The Gyre of Wizards? That is almost more difficult to believe than the Morgloth. But if the second is true, then maybe the first is as well. Felltang is a unique blade, and no Eyrian smith has been able to equal it in his forge. This blade is lighter, and holds a sharper edge, than any metal we have. And Felltang is not the only legacy of unnatural things from the ancient times.”

  He swept his hand through the air, indicating the walls of the palace—dark-grained, polished masonry.

  “Stonewood,” finished Tabitha.

  “So, yes, maybe something of the legend is true. Hard to know the truth about the wizards, but I believe you identified the purpose of Felltang. This blade was made to deal with the threat of Morgloth.”

  “And the Swordmaster has always been the one to wield it?” Tabitha asked.

  “Since it was awarded to Stevenson,” Garyll confirmed.

  “I was glad Felltang was in your hand today,” said Tabitha, with a sincere smile. Garyll held her with a deep, steady gaze while they paced on. His face was tanned, and a short stubble roughened the clean lines of his jaw.

  “I did nothing but execute a beast you had already crippled. You deserve more credit than I.”

  Glavenor was as good at deflecting compliments as he was at parrying sword-strokes. Tabitha was determined to find her target.

  “I had no way to kill the Morgloth,” she countered. “It recovered as soon as my breath ran out. I needed you, and you saved my life.”

  He nodded, but took her arm gently and drew her aside. They were somewhere outside the palace already, and it was bright. Tabitha’s whole attention was captured by the man before her. She was aware of the Gifters passing behind her on the path, but in a vague, hazy way that made their voices sound as echoes from afar. The closeness of the Swordmaster seemed to overwhelm the clarity of the Ring she bore, and even though it was warm on her finger, the rest of the world was awash with a buzzing light. One part of her world was clear, clearer than the crystal Ring.

  Garyll was holding her close, looking directly into her eyes.

  “On the Kingsbridge, I tasted fear for the first time,” he said quietly, to her alone.

  “The Morgloth is a terrifying beast,” she agreed, hesitantly. It was strange to consider Glavenor capable of fear. He was the Swordmaster, an invincible pillar of strength and certainty.

  Garyll shook his head. “The Morgloth was an adversary. I do not feel fear for adversaries. There is only a battle, and the best possible outcome.”

  It was the answer she had expected—cold logic, nerves of steel.

  “What did you fear?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper under the weight of his intense regard.

  “I feared that you might die. I have never felt such a fear before.”

  Caring and concern were mirrored in his expression, and something deeper that made her breath catch in her chest. Something like a surge of Light essence ran along the back of her legs, up her torso, through to her fingertips.

  She stepped towards him and rose on tiptoes. Her heart thundered in her ears as she realised what she was about to do. He looked surprised. She pushed her face closer to his, her nose so close to his skin she could smell the soap of a brief, recent wash and the sunbaked travelling he had endured beneath it. His clothes smelled of leather, horses, steel and his worked body.

  She kissed his cheek. His stub
ble was harder than she had expected, but strangely exciting.

  Get back, girl, you’ll be making a fool of yourself in a moment.

  She withdrew from the surprised Swordmaster. He must have seen the surprise on her face as well, for he laughed then, a deep, gentle laugh as one shares between friends, full of mirth and intimacy.

  “And I had wondered if I should ever dare to do the same,” he said, taking her arm and leading her onwards again. “You are truly a wonder, Tabitha Serannon.”

  She hoped he didn’t notice how she leaned on his arm for support for a brief few strides. There were too many emotions chasing through her mind to risk answering the Swordmaster’s compliment.

  * * *

  The young Lightgifter Ashley waited for them beyond the Palace guards. He looked mildly embarrassed at having to intercept them, especially when she and Glavenor parted hands to stand before him.

  How much did he see?

  But the mischievous cast to his eye told her. He had seen everything.

  I don’t care. I don’t have to hide anything about the way I feel. Except perhaps the weak knees.

  “Ah, sorry to intrude,” Ashley began.

  “Not at all, Ashley,” Glavenor reassured, his voice even.

  “Miss Serannon, we’ll meet you at the stables in the morning, if you’d like to accompany us to the Dovecote.”

  It was like a pin prick in the soap bubble of her daydreams. She knew she concealed her disappointment badly, but didn’t scruple to remedy it. Garyll was watching her, his expression unreadable. He seemed suddenly distant, a man unknown again.

  What was I thinking? He’s the Swordmaster, and I should be on my way to the Dovecote. It’s what I always wanted, to be a Lightgifter, isn’t it?

  “Thank you, Ashley, I’d like the company. How early shall we be leaving?”

  “At dawn, just after the Morningsong.”

  “Tomorrow morning, then,” said Tabitha, smiling.

  “Goodbye, Swordmaster,” said Ashley, extending a hand to Garyll. “It was an honour to travel with you.”

  “Thank you, Ashley, and likewise,” answered Garyll, shaking hands briefly, “but keep your farewells for the morn, when I can better thank the others for their efforts as well. And I doubt it’s goodbye—I may be needing your aid sooner than you think.”