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

by Greg Hamerton

  Flowerton had produced a triple-stemmed candle which seemed durable and colourful. Zarost preferred the spring-scented carved birds from Waxworth in Meadowmoor. You could smell the vitality of the Eyrian downs in them, and he kept one burning in his tent upon the wharf almost every day. They made a nice set—an Ayen Manor necklace, a slender-necked glass, and swan candle—especially for those men whom Madam Astro’z had foreseen meeting impressionable women in the near future.

  He chose the products that sold, and sold fast. A pity he could not trade in Dwarrow-wine or spirits, but that would put him up against the Licencing Council and the shoreside tavern heavies. As it was he was operating as a grey trader, having paid only the stalls on either side of him for his place.

  He sourced farflung items quickly using the Lightgifters’ Couriers. The ministering Gifters came through the shoreside district every afternoon, collecting donations for the ‘upkeep of the Dovecote’ in exchange for a ‘token of gratitude’—a polite cover for the most active message-service in Eyri. Donate a silver, and a written message could be carried with others in a Courier’s flight. Donate six, and you might receive a ‘token of gratitude’ in the form of an entire Courier bird, to speak to and carry your private message to any Gifter in the realm, who in their turn would receive a ‘donation’ for interpreting the missive. Money passed hands faster than doves could fly. If the Gifters became too busy, the ‘donation of minimal significance’ merely rose until the crowds had thinned. Zarost thought it was a useful system, but it was also a terrible corruption of the original vision which had inspired the founder of the Lightgifters to begin their Order.

  Charity was supposed to flow from the rich to the poor, not the other way around.

  He bought and sold as little magic as possible. For anything within greater Levin, he used runners from the poor district, who were cheaper and had a greater need for the money than the Dovecote.

  In the second week, intriguing items began to flow into Madame Astroz’s market stall. A clock from Respite which needed no winding. Zarost supposed the device must need replacement eventually, but it seemed to find all the power it needed to move the little arms from a clever bellows which measured the changing weight of the sky. He had never seen anything of its kind, and he almost broke the copper-wire finishing whilst trying to take it apart. The construction was unnaturally accurate for an artisan from the Rockroute County. Perhaps the workshop in Respite had lured away an Ayen Manor apprentice with an offer of a Journeyman’s pay.

  The clock fetched a high price as soon as it arrived.

  The first Levin Councillor who came to collect taxes, Madam Astro’z sent away, because the bristle-nosed fidget was not who he claimed to be. The second Councillor, jowled and jolly, was indeed an important man, and he wanted ten golds in taxes for the trading licence and another five for Madame Astroz’s indiscretion (or a ‘little something for the mistress, something memorable, something discreet’). And so a beautiful painting from Southwind was lost, a depiction of two swans necking upon the Amberlake amidst drifting thistledown beneath a brooding sky. Zarost decided it was for the best—buyers of paintings were fickle folk, prone to indecision. The artwork might have simply gathered dust.

  Then there was a soft-spoken Sword who was searching for a troublemaker called the Riddler. No, Madam Astro’z was obviously not the troublemaker, because she was a woman. No, he understood that the Madame might not see everything from within her tent, but maybe she knew something of a bearded man with a striped hat. Where was that accent from, Madame, from Fendwarrow? Or Coppershaft? She was new on the wharf, wasn’t she, not from around Vinmorgen? Where had she come from, and when had she crossed Counties? Were there perhaps trade records or ancestral documents to verify the Madame’s history?

  Madam Astro’z had produced a quire of the rare Russel Soft-press, pale paper that was fine and strong, and utterly blank. The Sword had laughed at Madame Astroz’s temerity, but had taken the paper in exchange for not mentioning to his superiors the lack of documentation. The Sword had suspected that something was amiss with Madam Astro’z, but he hadn’t suspected the truth of the riddle.

  And so Madam Astro’z continued to trade, while all around her tent the commodities moved, through that great working filter that was the Levin trade yard. Building timbers from Llury, twelve foot high and straight as an arrow. Those pungent sticky barrels from Tarbarn which always reminded Zarost of the pallisaded villages in the Oldenworld Hunterslands, or the mountain lodges of Koraman Kingdom. Heavy flour sacks from Westmill. Jocular sailors from Wright in Westfold brought tanned leather and soap and glue. Dusty wagoneers offloaded finespun wool from Meadowmoor County, tapestries from First Light, livestock from Cellarspring. And as much was outbound from the Vinmorgen farms: eggs, salted meat, fruit, cheese and wine. Linen from Burke Manor, garments from the productive switch-looms of Rhyme. Buyers poked at bundles even before they were off the pulleys and wharemen cursed lethargic stevedores.

  To be a trader on the Levin wharf was to hold the pulse of Eyri in your hand, and to feel its health in your ledger. And so it was that the coins were heavy in Madame Astroz’s breasts that morning as she climbed the street through Levin on the way to the Safekeeper.

  Zarost came to Copper Fountain, a small greensward around which the elegant arched buildings of the various Safekeepers and Lenders were arrayed. One of the few open grounds in Levin, it offered him the first unobstructed view of the sky since he’d left the market. He noticed the strange cloud, and stopped dead.

  A curled and many-tailed shroud crossed the sun. It was too strange a pattern for an ordinary cloud, forked and cross-ribbed in the style of the glyphic texts of Kaskanzr, in Oldenworld, like the cards of foretelling that Madam Astro’z used. A few Kaskanzan words had been blended to form a message. Refuge stood in the pattern, or Egg. The symbol for Abandonment was there as well, but it was somewhat dissolved, as if the lowest twist of cloud was unintentional, so he couldn’t be certain. But over them all was laid a pattern which made his heart stand still. Doom.

  It was too particular a design to have been achieved by random motion alone, and yet no one within Eyri would recognise that writing, no one but him. Such a message could have come from one source alone. The Gyre of Wizards, out in Oldenworld, beyond the Shield.

  He had to meet with the Wizards.

  The glyphic cloud drifted on the high winds, burning its awful decree upon the innocent blue sky of Eyri.

  Doom? For over five hundred years the Gyre had faced Ametheus, and they had endured many horrors, but while they stood together, there was always hope. What could they face now that was so terrible they had lost faith? And why had they chosen the symbol for Abandonment? Did they mean he should prepare to leave his refuge, leave Eyri, abandon it altogether? That was too terrible to consider.

  The ominous cloud lingered in his thoughts that day, long after it had drifted beyond the horizon. He concluded his business with the Safekeeper, and hurried back to the wharf market. He would have to clear his wares. Madam Astro’z lifted her tent-skirts, and announced a sale.

  Then, sometime around noon, when he was in the thick of the bargain-merry crush, he heard a voice of wonder; a song, carried on the breeze, coming from beyond the crowd, beyond even the lower districts of Levin. No, that voice belonged to the Seeker—it came from within the Dovecote. No one but Zarost took any notice, for they didn’t recognise the powerful burst in the ether, the unmistakable trace of magic, the resonance that shivered through everything with a rush of life.

  Tabitha Serannon had sung. She was exploring the Lifesong lore once more. She was ready to be riddled.

  He was so overjoyed that he gave a soft-coloured silk away to the customer who had been haggling with him upon a price of four-silvers-and-seven. He barely noticed the rest of the wares leaving his stall at cut-throat prices. He hummed a melody to himself all through the afternoon.

  Only as the colours of the marketplace cooled to shadow, did the tune die o
n his lips. He could not forget the way the lowest tail of the Gyre’s glyph-cloud had curled to complete the symbol of Doom. He knew that he would have to answer the summons from the Gyre first—it was too urgent, too alarming to ignore. He couldn’t believe they had really meant to include the symbol of Abandonment.

  It could not be the end, not now, with the Seeker so close to power.

  He went to bed a troubled woman.

  30. SHATTERED DREAMS

  “Sanity is a narrow trail,

  perched upon a knife-edged cliff.”—Zarost

  The Amberlake slapped against the rocks of the Kingsbridge. Through a narrow slit, the pale starlight flashed off the chop outside. The crevice was deep, and the sharp rocks were slanted at an awkward angle.

  Kirjath Arkell wondered what night it was. There was a mess in his mind where his memory should be. He was –

  It came again, and he clutched the rock. The jerking, shivering, splintering pain. It took him some time to realise that the attack had passed, and that he could release his grip.

  He wondered what night it was.

  The Swords had come and gone. There had been nothing for them to see in the gloom of the crevice but dark, and Dark. Most men couldn’t tell the difference. That was days ago.

  Wasn’t it?

  His vision spiralled into a hundred stars, which jiggled and spun, then collected into one terribly bright red burst. The spasm which ripped through his body wiped his mind clean.

  He was a spider under threat. He knew he must hide. He had not eaten, there was a roaring hunger in his belly, and the cold never-ending. But there was water, oh there was lots of water. And he was alive.

  Unlike the beast, he remembered suddenly. He shivered. The image of the battle on the Kingsbridge flickered to life in his mind’s eye, then was torn apart by the shrieking sword. He had been inside the Morgloth, he had been linked to it. Then the blade had struck, and the scream had shattered his stone. There was only an instant he remembered after that—coming to consciousness, finding himself sinking, too deep in cold water to ever reach the surface in time. He had cast the Freeze spell on himself, even though he knew that it would just delay the inevitable—he would wake up later, at the bottom of the lake, and drown. It was a most extreme measure, to Freeze one’s own heart, a trick they had played with in the early days of his apprenticeship, even though it had been forbidden. Then, they had used only small amounts of essence, which caused a deep unconsciousness for a few hours. In the lake, he had used all the power of summoning he could. It was the end, and he had saturated himself with Dark essence. Even as he had cast the spell, he had known it would be the last one he would ever cast. The breakdown of his mind had begun, as his shattered Darkstone raped his sanity.

  But he had not drowned. When he’d come to, desperately cold, he’d found himself lying at the water’s edge, on the foot of the Kingsbridge again. He’d floated to the surface, but slowly, for the current had drawn him a long way towards Levin. He had no idea of whether it was the night of the same day, or the next. He had no way of finding out. But he’d seen the Sword approaching, and had hid himself in the crevice. He’d passed out then, for a long time, he supposed. He had never known such desperate weakness.

  He forgot what he had been thinking of. An image of a great black Keep filled his mind, a place he half remembered, then it was gone. He cursed. Then he cried, for a time, knowing he was probably going to die, despite it all. He hated the tears more than anything. He was too weak to move.

  His mind was like a barrel of broken glass. Every heartbeat turned the barrel, and the shards tumbled over each other, shattering his view of the lake and the moon, painting a new vision in place of the old.

  He was a demon lord. He was a Shadowcaster. He was a young boy again, watching his father’s execution at the hand of the King’s justice. He was a Morrigán, waiting on the rocks at the mouth of the crevice. He was a Morgloth, biting a soldier’s neck from behind. He cackled at a joke told to him by a fellow along the bar, then cursed when he realised that no one had spoken. There was no bar. He was in a narrow cave.

  The kaleidoscope of thoughts was underlined by the excruciating pain of his shattered Darkstone. He spent a while clawing at his throat and the chain. Then he remembered it was useless. Only in death would it release its clasp and pass to another. It was a damaged relic now; all that remained of his orb was a jagged obsidian tooth. The girl had shattered it with her scream. She had shattered his mind.

  A flurry of wings reminded him of the dark bird at the mouth of the crevice. It slipped and flapped itself awkwardly towards him, trying to avoid sliding from the rock in the constricted space. Something was tied to its foot—a stone dragged and skipped along behind the bird. The raven paused just beyond his arm’s reach, cocking its head to one side, then the other. It issued a hoarse call.

  He looked blankly at the bird, forgetting what it was. Then he remembered receiving one before, in this crevice, and sending his own in reply to announce that he had survived. He had sent such a bird to the Darkmaster.

  The Morrigán croaked, and Kirjath covered his ears. The raven would not relent, its harsh call slipped past his crooked fingers and burrowed into his brain. It brought the bloom of red light and another seizure with it.

  When he stopped quivering, he was a Shadowcaster. There was a Morrigán before him, faded and weak. It must have been cast at least a full day ago, maybe two. Yet he had not accepted it. He felt the first twinge of fear at his condition.

  “Alight, messenger, and deliver your word.”

  The raven pulled its fetter into his hand. Kirjath felt the familiar touch of a smooth Darkstone. He recognised the chain, the open clasp. It was an unbroken orb, a new orb, black as the dead of night. He was to be made whole again. The Master cared. He belonged. Tears stung his eyes. He was a Shadowcaster. It was something he could hold onto.

  The raven dissolved, and the words of the message filled the crevice.

  “Deliver this orb to my new Shadowcaster and clasp it on her neck. She is held in the Dovecote. There is a small chapel at the end of the northern wing. You will be found there, and the girl brought to you. Clasp the Darkstone, and no more. I do not wish for her to be killed. Tabitha Serannon will bring both the Ring and her skill to me, in time.”

  The blood pounded in Kirjath’s ears. His rage found a focus, the needlepoint which had driven into him at every turn, causing his failure and ridicule. Tabitha Serannon. He knew the name only too well.

  “This is your last chance to gain favour in my eyes,” the Darkmaster ended.

  The waves lapped against the rock, and the reflected stars shimmered and dipped. The crevice was quiet.

  The Master had no idea how tenuous Kirjath’s grasp on sanity was. It had been a lucid moment when he sent the last Morrigán winging to Ravenscroft. He was having a similar moment now.

  How long before I’m twitching and yelping like a crazed cur?

  When the barrel of glass splinters turned in his mind, he would be lost to madness. Yet he could be nothing but a servant to the Dark. His orb prevented him from escape, even in its damaged form—he knew that when the Master turned his coercion on him, he would be unable to resist the pull toward Ravenscroft. His defiance was a thing of the past. The Master had spoken. Kirjath had to see to the orbing of a new Shadowcaster.

  He could not fight. There was not enough wholeness remaining in his mind to command the Dark with much focus, let alone to hold onto the vice-grip of the demon-spell.

  He wept. Then he shouted in rage, not caring who might hear a voice amongst the rocks where there should have been silence.

  Then he forgot why he was shouting. He looked at the orb in his hand with puzzlement, lifted it and tried to fasten the clasp at the back of his neck. The magic would not seal.

  He couldn’t remember what he had been trying to do. He dangled the orb on its chain against the pale starlight, and grimaced as it regularly blocked the narrow opening in his sight, swingi
ng back and forth.

  Dark. Light. Dark. Light. He used to have a swing under a big oak tree, and his father had pushed him high out over the water. Father had been strung on a rope in the village square, the King had said he was that bad.

  Dark. Light.

  The Morgloth had borne him over the castle wall.

  Dark.

  The pain was better if you bit down hard on your fingers.

  Light.

  He arched his back, and kicked out against the rock. He lay still for a while. Later, he sighed. You couldn’t sleep, when the pain kept you awake. He remembered now. The only way to sleep was to be unconscious. He bashed his head against the roof of his asylum.

  Something warm trickled down his cheek. He cupped a dark stone against his lips. He slid into the wedge of the crevice, and was gone again.

  31. A TRICK OF THE LIGHT

  “Every time you take a breath,

  you breath out your own name.”—Zarost

  Twardy Zarost’s sleep was interrupted by a gentle fluttering. It must be a moth that had sneaked through the outer layers of the tent. He brushed it aside. It settled again, a few moments later, with the faintest of familiar echoes, a soft voice raised in song.

  His heart skipped a beat. It was no moth; it had the pulse of power and a sense of newness to it that was impossible. He cracked an eye open. The light of dawn bloomed in the canopy above. Before his face, a coloured butterfly flitted in the air, swooped upon him, harried him. Its translucent wings held a wash of colour as if it had flown through a rainbow and caught traces of those pastel shades upon itself. It was a creature unlike any he had seen before. Ring upon ring of shimmering circles surrounded it, as if it had been recently touched by magic and was still shedding the traces of it. Yet the butterfly itself was no spell. It was as real as the folded linen beneath his body, as real as he was.

  With a flash of recognition, he understood. This was what the Lifesong had created the day before. This was the result of Tabitha’s spell, this was her butterfly! That was why the memory of her song clung to it so tight.