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

by Greg Hamerton

  The window remained empty. Joy welled up from deep inside. She laughed.

  She had sung a living thing from the clear essence. Her singing had primed the spell, her thoughts had shaped it. The Lifesong had a power beyond anything she had imagined, beyond anything she had heard of.

  She hoped the Rector wouldn’t notice one butterfly’s worth of essence missing from the Dovecote, because it wasn’t coming back.

  29. VEILED ANSWERS

  “Never ask for a fortune you cannot afford.”—Zarost

  Madam Astro’z scratched beneath her breasts. The bags were full and heavy again. So many coins glittering on the table before she’d packed them in, too many for a stall in the Levin wharf market to have on hand. It was time to transfer some wealth to a Safekeeper.

  She parted the tent flap. The warm morning sun caught the cinnamon patterns on her layered dress. The veil was pulled high on her face, so that only her eyes could be seen. Two youths ran by, playing a game of tag through the traffic of people and horses and carts. A scruffy dog scampered after them, barking happily. A knot of men in heavy work-clothes surrounded a noble-cloaked and balding gent. From the raised voices it was certain something was amiss with the money due for the previous day’s labour. Madam Astro’z didn’t want to get involved. It was a rule amongst the wharf traders; your business was your own. She signalled to Poorboy Jannus, a sardonic youth who was sitting on a barrel nearby, and he nodded his acknowledgment. Her tent would be watched while she attended to her urgent business. She walked briskly away from the bustling market, into the close-walled street which led upwards through the stained lower district of Levin.

  She would have to be on the lookout for thieves—the innocuous ones who stood in the doorways and waited on street corners, always alone, the men who seemed too casual and were too quick to smile. Most traders used the services of the Swords when taking their wealth to a Safekeeper, but Madam Astro’z couldn’t afford contact with the Swords, because she wasn’t really Madam Astro’z.

  Twardy Zarost needed to remain disguised. He’d done the best he could with his surname.

  They had taken him to the dungeons, and he didn’t want to return there. He cast his mind back to that day, when they had seized him from the gardens of the Leaf of Merrick, and taken him down, and left him. He remembered the sound.

  Bloink. Blink. Bloink.

  There was always dripping water in dungeons, and darkness in abundance.

  The darkness was so thick he couldn’t see the hat on his own head, though he had felt its weight. It smelled of moss, and other, older things. As soon as the soldiers left him, Zarost scratched at the walls, trying to find a loose block, a loose bar, anything. The Stormhaven dungeons were well made.

  He couldn’t ignore the growing fear that Tabitha was in danger. The King had arranged a carriage for her, to leave Stormhaven, and the Shadowcaster was somewhere within the city. She should be going to safety, and yet …

  The Official had seemed too pleased with himself when he had led Tabitha away.

  No, he had to escape. But the cell was locked, and sealed.

  He would have to use magic, but he knew he shouldn’t, because magic lingered. The Seeker would be sensitive to the traces of spells past, especially to the powerful spells of a Gyre member. He should not use his magic anywhere within Eyri, at least until she had found the wizard, for the unique atmosphere within the Shield might become tainted; it would spawn nothing extraordinary if he filled it with the magic of Twardy Zarost. The Seeker had to develop her own lore. He had taken an Oath to the Gyre, to be a Riddler and not a Wizard, while he was in Eyri.

  Yet she was in danger, he knew it.

  He gripped the bars and shook them. According to the Gyre’s Directive, he shouldn’t even be trying to save her, for doing so would violate the principle of Free Will. The Seeker’s choices were her own; if she chose a path to danger, then she was ready to walk it. It had been easy with the others, to leave them alone when their trials came upon them. But Tabitha Serannon! She was an extraordinary Seeker, the first one to discover something truly new. He paced the floor in the dark. He wanted to make sure she succeeded. He wanted to shield her from adversity, and bend Fate to spare her from danger.

  But that was wrong, and he knew it.

  Fate should be allowed to progress according to the Seeker’s vision, or else the Seeker would not find the wizard she was supposed to find. His job, as always, was to be the riddler, the oracle, the source of knowledge she could draw upon. Never the preacher, the instructor. That was the worst kind of teacher, for she would learn his choices, follow his ways, and her own talent would be suppressed, turned to mimic his. He had to wait until she sought more knowledge, until she called upon him.

  What if that call never came? No, he had to escape, if only to be near her.

  A door creaked open somewhere beyond the bars, and a pool of light wobbled its way down the stairs. Zarost squinted against the flickering of the brand. A familiar figure held it aloft, a sweaty Official in a yellow robe. The man waved an insistent moth angrily aside, slipped one step, then cursed.

  Zarost lay down quickly, while he was still shrouded within the darkness. He put his face on the cold stone near the back of his cell. He guessed the Official was here to gloat. If he played dead, maybe the man would be stupid enough to unlock the door, to prod him with a foot.

  Zarost couldn’t see his visitor, but he could hear his movements as he approached. The torch was set into a brazier on the far wall, its dancing light came intermittently through the long shadows of the bars. A faint odour of garlic and lavender drifted towards Zarost.

  “Hullo, swine!”

  A stone clipped Zarost’s head, but lightly—the official’s arm was weak. Zarost waited. He was determined not to give Lethin Tarrok the pleasure of tormenting a caged man.

  The next stone missed, and the one after that.

  “Bah! You’ll get your punishment! You’ll be seeing the Master again, once this is all over. He doesn’t like it when his advisors run away.”

  So, Tarrok did have connections to Ravenscroft. Zarost knew that the heckler was not a Shadowcaster, he had no aura of magic about him. He was just a spy.

  A well-delivered stone bit him between his shoulder blades.

  “Vermin! You count the weeks on your grubby little claws,” Tarrok crowed. “You won’t get far before the crown will pass to the Dark. And you won’t be able to betray the plan to the King, now. I will be well rewarded for capturing you in time.”

  Zarost kept his breath slow and even.

  “You’ve sided with the wrong ruler, cur! Mellar will be on his knees before the Master, pleading for mercy. The King shall fall, and we shall see how Eyri’s ruler deals with traitors.”

  Zarost stared at the wall. The governance of the realm was not his concern. The use of magic was.

  Get yourself involved in the running of kingdoms, and you’ll end up an old man in no time at all.

  He supposed that he was an old man, a very old man, but he had got there at his leisure over a few centuries. His captor had no idea who he tormented. But then neither did the Darkmaster really understand, and Zarost had been beside him for over twenty years.

  A piece of bread thumped to the floor, and a steel cup clanked down beside it.

  “You’ll find I’m always considerate to my prisoners. This is for you, you’ll get a fresh serving every day.” Tarrok snickered. “Oh dear, there’s a rat in the corner! Don’t move! I’d hate for your food to be stolen before you can eat it.” A stone whizzed through the air and struck Zarost’s leg. He heard a scuffling in the dark. The next stone struck the wall.

  “Rack and blast you!” Tarrok threw his entire handful of pebbles in frustration, and they clattered around Zarost, some rebounding from the bars. “You shouldn’t be chasing lying little tarts, not at your age,” he taunted. “There’s always a younger man, who will want her more, and be prepared to pay for it. Hee! The thing about royal coaches
is, you never know what goes into those storage boxes, or what goes on behind those curtains.”

  Zarost stiffened. The coach! The Shadowcaster was within it! He should have known that the Official would have helped Arkell, for a little bribe, or perhaps just a threat. She really was in danger. Zarost wanted to jump up and strike the man, but the bars would prevent him.

  Maybe he would still get the chance, if he lay still enough.

  “I know you’re listening, I know you’re there!” said Tarrok. “Your food might improve if you choose to talk. I want to know how they grow jurrum, and what the secret is of the Dwarrow-wine. I could make a fortune growing that in my father’s lands in Vinmorgen County. No? You little roach! I’m sure your attitude will change, as you grow thinner.” He cackled like a crone, and his voice altered as he turned away. The light from the brand wobbled as it was moved. Damn! The man wasn’t so stupid after all. He wasn’t going to enter the cell; he was preparing to leave. Zarost risked a glance. Tarrok still had his back partly turned while he tried to free the brand from brazier. A single key was looped upon his waistband, worn plainly in sight. Probably shown off deliberately, a reminder to Zarost of who had command of the cell. Zarost memorised its pattern before easing his face away.

  “I’m thinking of flooding this floor of the dungeon, to help clear the rats!” Tarrok jeered as he walked away. “So if you wake up and you’re drowning, you’ll know why.”

  Tarrok continued laughing at his own joke all the way to the stairs. He dawdled up the flight, then he was gone.

  “And if you don’t wake up at all, you’ll know why,” Zarost muttered under his breath.

  In the pale afterglow of the retreating light, he made his way to the thin steel cup. As he’d thought, the liquid in it was not water, it was a pale yellow fluid, and pungent. He threw it out hard.

  There would be time to deal with Lethin Tarrok. But for now, he had more important matters to attend to. Like getting to Tabitha Serannon, before it was too late.

  There was a scuffling along the far wall. A darker shadow with a tail, heading for the bread. The rat was welcome to it—the food was likely to be of similar vintage to the water.

  The vague flickering of the torch was gone, and it was quiet. Zarost paused, considering what he was about to do. It was a huge risk to break the Oath, even in the small way he would need to escape. Twardy Zarost scowled at the darkness. It was never easy, being the Riddler. There was no other way.

  He concentrated on the handle of the steel mug and gathered the clear essence inside it. Within the metal, hidden in the tiny particles of matter, was the essence that governed the matter’s shape and strength. He claimed that essence, and moved it on the second axis of magic towards Energy, striving to be as discreet as possible with his spell.

  The steel grew pliable in his hands. He pulled the handle free, then rolled the strip between his fingers. When it was long enough, he twisted the end into the right shape, and pinched the jagged tip flat. He guided the essence within the steel back towards the Matter end of the second axis. The steel hardened.

  They had called it Magemetal in Oldenworld. Such a popular spell, the Metalmelt, a simple loop around the zero point of the second axis. They had all cast it, in those early days, before the alternatives upon the third axis had been discovered. It was the quietest spell he could employ.

  The lock groaned as he turned his key in it, then the bolt slapped open. He locked it again behind him, and pocketed the key. They would know he’d escaped, but they would never know how. Nobody should know of his talents. Let them wonder.

  He trailed his hand along the slimy wall as he made for the stairs. A light, oh for a light! An even simpler spell, one of the first axis. “Double-damn the Oath!” he exclaimed. He couldn’t break the prohibition again, not when he had the alternative of guiding himself by dragging his fingers through a century of cold slime.

  Cast a light, and next you’ll be turning copper coins into gold, and playing with the minds of young ladies. And you will be the only wizard to emerge from Eyri when Time runs to an end.

  He gained the basement level, and came upon a linen store for the prisoners in a silent hallway. He donned one of the oldest, most stained burlap sheets, winding it over his clothes and around his head as well, in the manner of a leper. It would help him pass through Stormhaven swiftly, without being hindered. The Swords would be only too happy to send him on his way back to Rotcotford in Bentwood, where his kind belonged. An old tubular bell hung on a frayed hessian rope beside the door. Zarost took that as well, stuffing his hat into the body of the bell to prevent the rusted clapper from clanging until he was outside.

  At the exit, there was only one jailor, asleep. Little wonder, Zarost mused, for he only had one prisoner. He was probably used to guarding nothing at all. His keys were close enough to hook with a broomhandle.

  And so he left the dungeons, and the palace at Stormhaven, and left the city as fast as his affected hobbling gait would allow. There had been great commotion around the Gates, Swords running hither and thither, and a galloping company rushed by, heading for Levin. He had slipped through.

  Then he had heard the high scream, and seen with his hawk-eyes, far away, that horrible beast of the Underworld crouched before the Seeker, and the flaming carriage behind. He had run, careless of his disguise, building a deadly spell between his hands.

  A true voice had sung, a glinting blade had swung, and there was nothing to be done at all.

  For the girl had held the Morgloth, and Glavenor had slain it dead.

  She hadn’t needed his spell, she had been ready.

  He danced like a dervish upon the Kingsbridge, whirling till his burlap flapped loose, whirling till the horizon became a smooth line separating the blue dome above from the golden waters beneath. He let the essence dissolve on the breeze, so unneeded, so good to release unused. She had passed her first great trial. She had used what she had learned to defeat a great rival. She had demonstrated her claim on the Ring.

  By the time the Swordmaster thundered by, bound for Stormhaven, he was a leper once more, sack-clothed and obeisant, his staggering tread announced by the dull clanks from the marker at his neck. He kept his gaze down as the Seeker and her companions passed by. There would be better times to greet young Tabitha, but in the secrecy of his hood he couldn’t suppress a smile.

  Stormhaven had become too risky for him, and he guessed the Seeker would move on to the Dovecote soon enough. So he chose to disappear within Levin, to be near enough should the Seeker need him, but where he could remain hidden from others who might seek him out. An easy feat to become anonymous in Levin—the city was like a fat old lady, sat upon the lake shore, so large that most citizens were obscured within the many folds of her skirts. Too much trade passed through the great city for any one person to be noticed, too much traffic rumbling in and out, day and night; too much life. Stormhaven might be the head of Eyri, with the Houses of Rule and the King’s Court, but Levin was its beating heart.

  Thus was Madam Astro’z born; a veiled woman of undetermined age, olive-skinned, attractive to some, if only for the hidden promise of her large bosom and the mischief in her wise watchful eyes. Her name, as unusual as the Madame herself, was pronounced ‘Astroze’. If those who spoke to her had chanced to see beneath the veil, they might have noticed that Madam Astro’z became stubbled in the afternoons. But by then the wharemen who came to the wharf market were too tired to haggle with an insistent woman, and the other customers were hurrying for the taverns. When they came to Madam Astro’z again, on the way home from the shoreside watering holes, she did a brisk business in soothsaying, with her star charts and glyph cards. This work she found most delightful, for her customers lost one fortune to gain another, one they would have received regardless of her augury. But she was talented, they all agreed, foretelling things which came to pass within the week. She knew things that cut like a knife.

  Madam Astro’z—how much she saw through the slitted
veil, how much she saw beyond it.

  He had guessed correctly about Tabitha, for after a few days he heard gossip in the wharf market that the singer was on Light Hill, studying to be a Gifter. She would need some time to absorb all that had happened. She would need some time to think, before the questions would begin again.

  She would need some time to reflect, and look inward.

  And so Twardy Zarost immersed himself in the glinting details of Eyrian commerce.

  The best trade was in fine jewelry, for he knew how to distinguish the resmelted finery made in Ayen Manor from the inferior originals made in Chink—although the miner’s daughters had tried their best to produce the Ayen Manor style and delicacy, the Rockroute County still had no silversmiths the equal of Shilivar Ayen’s house in Vinmorgen.

  The rivalry had a history to it. Every generation of miner’s daughters tried to improve on their shortcomings. What a shame the fault was in their forge, not in their artistry. Too great a metalworks at Chink, fired by the quickpines brought from the Westfold plantations, fired until the very stones in the street outside the forgery were hot. It was suited for the stronger work in iron and steel; their farming implements and cookware and even weaponry were good, their curled gemstrings not so. Shilivar Ayen could take their best efforts as raw materials for his own compact forge, and produce the same items with less metal and more finesse. His descendants had inherited his clever hands—but for the hairline touches left by the finishing tools Zarost couldn’t tell which member of the Ayen family had worked on jewelry.

  Ayen Manor’s filigreed glassware was also becoming sought after since they had mastered the art of trapping fine veins of gold between two layers of glass. The coloured pottery alternatives from Kironkiln didn’t stand a chance amongst those Levinners who appreciated style.