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

by Greg Hamerton

  Garyll was at her side instantly, lifting her from the ground in his arms, holding her close as if she weighed nothing at all. His face was close.

  “Oh, I am sorry Tabitha, I am such a fool. I thought it was going to crack your head. Raven! That was no ordinary bird.”

  She just looked up at him, dazed, shocked by the force of Garyll’s blow, by the suddenness of the attack from above, by the overwhelming conflict of emotions she felt. A moment ago she had been meaning to kiss him. The opportunity had been stolen, by a Dark messenger. She didn’t know whether it was fear, relief, sadness or anger she felt. Her heart pounded, and she was glad Garyll carried her still. A shiver passed through her body, a delayed excitement at having been so suddenly separated then brought close again.

  She felt his lips on hers.

  She thought she saw a reflection of her own surprise in his eyes. Before he could end the kiss, she caught his head in her hands, and kissed him back. His hair was thick and smooth.

  When he finally pulled away, and set her upon her feet, the night was different. The darkness was not so dark, the warmth of her own body pushed the cold away.

  “Goodnight, Tabitha,” he said, his broad smile gradually fading. “I think I shall make a patrol of Stormhaven, to see if I can disturb any more things that do not belong in the city. You get safely indoors now. I shall see you off at dawn.”

  “Thank you, Garyll,” she said, but didn’t move. “I had a wonderful time with you.”

  He bowed low, then turned and paced away.

  “Goodnight,” she called after him. He waved, a smile creeping over his shoulder. She blew a kiss to his back, watching his determined stride carry him through a street now commanded by the Swordmaster of Eyri.

  She took the stairs to her room two at a time.

  * * *

  The Darkmaster smacked his sceptre into the floor. He wished for the power to split the rock beneath, that all of Ravenscroft might shudder and tremble at his strike. His plan had failed.

  No! His plan had not yet succeeded!

  Kirjath Arkell was missing, and might even be dead.

  Cabal had sent Morrigán after Morrigán out to search for the errant Shadowcaster, but Arkell was nowhere to be found. During the Midnight Mass Cabal could feel the loss of his servant directly. There was a place of deeper silence, a missing link in the network of Darkstones. The Midnight Mass swelled and echoed within Ravenscroft’s chambers, but one Shadowcaster was absent. One voice did not chant its unswerving loyalty to the Master. One presence was gone.

  It had been enough of a shock to see the corpse of the Morgloth being hoisted to the battlements of Stormhaven. That was the first vision that his Morrigán had returned to him. Arkell had been doomed the moment he began to play with the Underworld. Yet with access to such devastating beasts, Kirjath Arkell should have had no problems retrieving the Ring.

  Cabal had fuelled Kirjath’s anger well enough before sending him on his quest from Ravenscroft the last time. With the suggestions planted in his mind, the Shadowcaster should not have been able to stop until he had reclaimed the Ring. And then, Cabal would have reeled him in like a fish on the line. But someone had killed the Morgloth, and Arkell was lost. He had to assume the worst.

  Which left a horrible consequence in its bloody wake. The Ring was not yet reclaimed, and he could not risk the confrontation he had been planning. The Swords would have to be delayed until he had the talisman secured.

  His latest Morrigán had still not returned.

  He ended the Midnight Mass prematurely, cutting his devotees off with a terse mental command.

  “Enough!” he shouted, stomping his sceptre into the floor once again. “Silence!” It was a command as well as the spell he sent rippling through the Keep. Dark essence bonded to his pattern, and Ravenscroft became as still as a graveyard.

  The mental union of devotees fragmented in confusion.

  Let them wonder. Let them fear my wrath tonight!

  He had never cut short his favourite pleasure before. He usually delighted in the multiple domination of the Midnight Mass.

  He sat quite still.

  It was a Morrigán that finally broke the silence, returning to its Master with a croaking cry and a circling flutter of wings.

  “Alight, messenger, and deliver your vision.”

  The bird released the sights it had been sent to find, and so became motes of Dark once again. Cabal saw the girl, her face upturned in surprise, at the base of some stairs. So she lived still. That fact only underlined Kirjath’s miserable failure. Cabal caught a glimpse of a figure beside the girl, the unmistakable defiant pose of a fighter, tall, black-haired. The Swordmaster Glavenor.

  Cabal’s sceptre smacked the floor a third time. A fragment of stone chipped at the base and skittered away in the darkness.

  I cannot afford them to be together.

  They surely would be drawn apart very soon. The King would have to answer the challenge of Ravenscroft with an invasive army. If Cabal judged him correctly, Glavenor would lead the army himself. The girl, he was sure, would be left behind.

  All that was needed was a little time.

  The soldiers would have to be stalled, until the threat of the girl had been eliminated. He needed to be sure that the Ring would not be used against him in some accidental discovery of magic.

  He massaged the knuckle of his middle finger on the left hand, where he had worn the Ring those many years ago. It ached still, that bite of cold which had heralded the end of its tolerance for him.

  His own discoveries with the Ring had come upon him with rapid bursts of enlightenment. The Decay spell he had learned in one night.

  The next night he had watched its deadly effect on a dissident trader.

  Yes, the girl had to be silenced before she could learn anything of the sort. The Ring was a stepping stone to knowledge of devastating power.

  Such possibilities, yet it had long since ceased to be a boon to him. Even when he bore the Ring on his neck-chain, using it to gain insight into new spells was like trying to draw blood from a stone.

  What if she has already learned something new. What if she defended herself from Arkell by using magic?

  The Morgloth was dead. His Shadowcaster was gone.

  What has she learned to do?

  But then an oily smile spread across his face as a new possibility dawned on the Darkmaster.

  She didn’t have to represent a danger. She could be a tool.

  He realised he had erred in sending Kirjath to claim the Ring. It wasn’t the Ring he needed to claim; it was the girl.

  25. ENTER THE DOVE

  “Learning makes us younger;

  it’s the forgetting that causes age.”—Zarost

  The Morningsong began Tabitha’s day. The voices of the distant assembly in the Dovecote surrounded her in sleep, but the volume of sound soon diminished as she woke. She was fuzzy-headed, but excited. The Lightstone brought the last verse of the song to her, a delicate blend of Lightgifter’s voices made small.

  To wake thus was fitting—it was a special day. She was finally going to Levin, to begin her apprenticeship to the Light. She fumbled her things together—the lyre, her coins tied on a thong, the little mirror Zarost had given her; all that remained of her possessions. She supposed that she could purchase more clothes with the ample money she had, but there seemed little point in that, on her way to the Dovecote. She would wear the Gifter’s whites when they welcomed her into the fold.

  She donned the clothes she had worn the evening before, and stuffed her old tunic into the pocket of her heavy cloak. There wasn’t time for breakfast. Ashley Logán had said they departed just after dawn. She was already late.

  She ran, her lyre in hand, a joyous thrill spurring her on. Someone else beside the Gifters would be there, to see them all off.

  * * *

  They were all waiting for her when she reached the stables. The three Lightgifters sat in an open carriage, with two Swords up fro
nt. Garyll Glavenor was chatting to one of the escorts, but he turned on her arrival. His broad smile was all she needed to make her day perfect.

  Last night was not just a whim.

  He gave Tabitha a private little nod, but greeted her formally. “Good morning, Miss Serannon.” He even bowed at the waist.

  “Morning to you too, Swordmaster Glavenor,” she returned, dipping in a bow as well. The stiff behaviour made her want to giggle, it seemed out of place, but she supposed in the presence of his men, and the Gifters, he couldn’t exactly sweep her up in his arms, and kiss her full on the lips, as he had on the steps of the Boarding. There was an awkward moment as she considered what would be a proper gesture of parting. He solved that problem for her, by stepping close and offering her his hand. He led her up the carriage steps, and kissed her hand in the manner of a gentleman.

  “You’ll make a fine Lightgifter. I shall seek you out when I return.”

  He didn’t have to announce where he went. She knew he meant the dark vale of Ravenscroft.

  “Good luck,” she said. She squeezed his hand.

  It was as brief a parting as that. Garyll stepped down and away from them, and bade farewell to the others in the carriage. The driver flicked the reins, and the carriage swept out of the stable. The tall, pensive figure of the Swordmaster was lost to view. Tabitha was swept on by the swift current of the day.

  What little conversation began in the rear of the carriage, died away as they passed through the great City Gates. The Morgloth had indeed been hoisted to swing from the battlements, a sign to all of judgement passed in the King’s name. Tabitha shivered at the sight of the demon, its slack wings hanging far past its truncated body. It seemed to Tabitha as much a token of victory as a warning of evil, for if one Morgloth could be brought to be, so could another.

  She supposed the King was wise to alert the populace to Eyri’s present danger—if Ravenscroft held close to the numbers of Shadowcasters reported by Garyll and the Gifters, then great hardship was coming. Everyone should be on their guard.

  It only strengthened her resolve to become a Lightgifter. At least with command of the sprites, she could use her mother’s orb to assist the healing of the land, or to fight for goodness, should it come to that.

  She hoped Garyll could contain the threat of Ravenscroft within its own valley, and that nothing escaped. No Eyrians deserved to face a creature like the Morgloth.

  The events of the previous day haunted them all in different ways. Silence ensued until they were well past the place of the battle, until they were closing on the tiered city of Levin. Slowly, the enthusiasm she had felt on waking returned. She was going to the Dovecote, to become a Lightgifter. Her excitement rose with every winding street they ascended.

  * * *

  They were taken directly to the Rector’s chambers on arrival. Tabitha was awe-struck—the hall they passed through was large enough to accommodate a fully grown silken tree. The crystal obelisk, the Source, was much bigger than she had expected from her mother’s tales. It was a glorious sculpture of flashing, sparkling sunlight.

  They ascended two flights of stairs, and were ushered into the richly-furnished rooms of the Rector Shamgar. Luxurious couches and furs were arranged within the pale walls, but the layout seemed obscure, for there was nowhere for the visitors to seat themselves when addressing the seated Rector. They were left standing like schoolchildren brought before a teacher upon a misdemeanour.

  The three Gifters greeted him as ‘Illumination’, and Tabitha followed suit, bowing briefly from the waist as she had seen the others do. The Rector said nothing. He was half-turned in his broad chair to look out over Levin. Three great oval windows showed the western panorama, from the forests to the lowlands to where boats sailed the Amberlake along the dividing line of the Kingsbridge. The Rector swivelled his chair to regard them critically.

  The leader of the Lightgifters was heavy, Tabitha decided, for it was too much of an effort for him to rise from his chair to welcome them. He puffed his cheeks out while he ran his pale blue eyes over the newcomers.

  “Morgloth on the Kingsbridge, and you in the thick of it, I hear, what?” He eased the sash that tightened his purple robe around his belly. “Well, report to me, Keegan. What have you been doing to spread peace and healing?”

  Keegan bunched his shoulders, but answered in a steady, bored tone. “We followed the trail of Shadowcaster Arkell from First Light. He captured Hosanna—she was ahead of us with Rosreece. I fear Rosreece was murdered by Arkell, for we have not seen him again, and Hosanna bursts into tears at the mention of Rosreece’s name.”

  “She cries at anything you ask her,” noted Sister Grace, her voice full of compassion.

  Keegan nodded, and continued with the report. “Arkell evaded us in Fendwarrow, but sent a decoy to the Darkmaster’s hidden lair, which we managed to follow. A full settlement of Shadowcasters, a whole vale with its own Keep, tilled fields, and a hidden access. They call it Ravenscroft, a foul, bitterly cold place. Who knows how long they have harboured their power there?”

  “How much time did you spend in Fendwarrow?” the Rector asked Keegan.

  “Not more than a few hours, Rector. Ravenscroft is beyond it –”

  “I worry for the people of that village,” the Rector cut in. “Too much darkness and suffering, for too long, what?”

  Keegan stood stiffly before his superior. “But it’s the doorway to the Dark, they gather in Raven –”

  “Yes, yes, the vale of the Darkmaster. As I understand it from your strange messages, a remote place high in the mountains. My concern is for things closer to home.”

  “We should take a force of Gifters to Ravenscroft, and help the Swordmaster in his campaign,” objected Keegan. “He plans to conquer the Shadowcasters, for they claim no allegiance to the crown. He has requested our assistance, and I believe the Dovecote owes him that.”

  The Rector blew his cheeks out, his expression darkening at Keegan’s insistent defiance.

  “Maybe you mistake yourself for a Sword, Father Keegan. Ours is the way of healing, not of war. If the Shadowcasters choose to hide in a place called Ravenscroft, then they are causing no harm. The Swordmaster can go on his hunt with his own strong men, I’ll not be risking good Gifters for the sake of picking a fight. But harm indeed is often seen in Fendwarrow, not so? Sickly babies, women the victims of trouble, the waterborne madness. Tell me, when you passed through there, did you see any signs of Light?”

  “No, Rector,” Keegan answered slowly, his shoulders still bunched. “From there, and all the way in to the mountains, not a sprite or silken tree.”

  “And yet here in Levin, there is a surplus of sprites, not just in the Cote, but in the streets, down at the water’s edge, up in the trees. Think of Stormsford, or Llury, or even Respite. Everywhere in Eyri, we have taken the Light to the people. But in Fendwarrow, there is none.”

  “That is because it has been used up, in healing,” said Grace, plainly.

  “In a place where there is no light, that is where darkness grows, what?” the Rector stated.

  “Do you wish something to be done about it?” asked Keegan.

  “Take Light essence to that place, to Fendwarrow. I shall issue you with a large supply of sprites. A mission of mercy, if you will, to the poor folk of Fendwarrow, what? See what good you can do there, Father Keegan. I am sure your time will be better spent in that than in chasing shadows. I have spoken to you.”

  Keegan remained silent.

  “Sister Grace, explain to me how it is that your group went to Stormhaven on the Kingsbridge but did not report to me before doing so? You rode past Levin.”

  “We had to report our findings to the King,” replied Grace.

  “Just as well, or we wouldn’t have come upon the Shadowcaster in time,” Keegan added.

  “Silence! Did you not hear me say I have spoken to you? The King rules Eyri, but it is I who rule you, even if you wish it otherwise,” he said loudly, tu
rning his glare upon Grace. “And it is to me that you should report first. I shall decide whether to report it to the King. How can we work in unity if your priorities lie elsewhere?”

  “I would have thought helping a fellow Gifter out of trouble would always be to the benefit of the Dovecote,” said Grace.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Tabitha here, she’s a Lightgifter, is she not? We helped her defeat the Shadowcaster, and his Morgloth.”

  The Rector turned his attention to Tabitha for the first time. She almost wished he had not noticed her, for his gaze was an uncomfortable thing to endure. She felt pinned to the spot, scrutinised, and found wanting.

  “You are Trisha Serannon’s daughter?”

  Tabitha nodded, earnestly.

  The Rector snorted, and continued to hold her with his gaze while he addressed Sister Grace. “She may hope to be a Lightgifter, but I have neither tested this one, nor found her worthy yet.”

  “But she bears the Lightstone. I thought –”

  “What?” bellowed the Rector suddenly.

  “She bears –”

  “I heard you! Show me,” he demanded of Tabitha, his expression dangerous.

  A wave of guilt washed over her, driven by the Rector’s disapproving stare, and further strengthened by the shocked expressions of the three Gifters. Tabitha pulled the Lightstone over the collar of her shirt, where she had kept it concealed for the day.

  “What!” the Rector shouted, jumping to his feet. “I never orbed you, girl! How dare you bear the Lightstone?” The Rector advanced on her. Though he was not much taller than Tabitha, he had the ability to look down upon her as if from a great height.

  “It was my mother’s,” she whispered, too afraid to back away. The Rector grabbed hold of the orb, and yanked hard, as if to free it. The chain held, and bit into the back of her neck. The Rector’s eyes widened in surprise. He reached behind her head.