It might be no coincidence then that it had found him. She must have guided its course, even though it was a real creature. That was more astounding than the butterfly itself—it had followed the emanations of the specific man she’d visualised, in the manner of a Courier bird. It would have looked for his aura, not his face, and so might have encountered his trail anywhere between Copper Fountain and the wharf, maybe even looping out upon the Kingsbridge before homing in on him.
Life! She had created life! She had tapped into the true power of the Lifesong. She might not know what she was doing, but she was already raising herself to unprecedented levels of perfection, in a kind of magic which had not been wielded with any competence for hundreds of years. She was developing so fast, yet she was unprepared for what she would draw upon herself with her brand of magic. Soon, she would be testing another second stanza, then seeking out a third and fourth. It was an undefined lore, unbounded, it might achieve anything. She might devise spells that would even break through the Shield and expose Eyri to the Chaos beyond. Zarost sat up straight in his bed. In many ways, Tabitha Serannon was still a girl, ignorant of what she touched, unready to face the fate she tempted. He was worried about her. By Ethea’s breath! She hadn’t even balanced the first axis of magic—she only knew of the Light.
The echoes of the Lifesong resonated in the butterfly. It came to rest on his shoulder, its wings opening and closing like a little book. He threw his blanket aside, and began to make ready for his departure. He would speak to her today, before he hastened to the Gyre meeting. She deserved a warning, or at least a nudge in the right direction.
He dressed as Madam Astro’z, but he had a suspicion this might be the last day she would be seen in Levin.
* * *
The Hall of Sky captured the sunlight, the Source scattered it. Sprites flickered through the air with manic disorder, overcharged with the Light. The essence mirrored the excitement within the gathered Assembly. Ashley Logán was amazed. They had applauded the Rector’s news, and now they babbled about it, all at once.
The Sword had conquered the Shadowcasters in the secret vale of Ravenscroft. These were the words of the herald who had spoken to the Rector. The strength of the Dark had been broken, and the Swords held the Keep. They required the urgent assistance of the Lightgifters, for the battle had been terrible. Many Swords required healing. The Rector wanted as much essence as could be commanded to be taken to the vale at once, to purge Ravenscroft of its evil taint. The Sword of Eyri had severed the head of the poisonous serpent. Ashley felt light-headed and carefree.
Rector Shamgar stamped his sceptre on the dais. It took him some time to attain a whispered silence, but he was unusually good-natured about the delay.
“Any volunteers to bear the greatness of the Light to help the Swords?”
The Hall filled with clamour again, and the Rector was lost to Ashley’s view behind a forest of raised hands. It would be a joyous task—to heal those Swords in need, and to purify the wastrels whom they no doubt held captive. Nothing so exciting had occurred in the history of the Dovecote.
A rushed morning of packing followed. They tacked up the few Dovecote horses, connected them to carts, and loaded those with supplies. The Rector announced that he would remain behind, to care for the Dovecote and the handful of Gifters and half-knots who weren’t able to take the march. Everyone in good health was urged to go.
Ashley joined Father Keegan when they departed.
“Have you seen Tabitha?” he asked.
Keegan shook his head. “Maybe she’s not coming, Ashley. She’s still a ghost, isn’t she?”
Ashley nodded. Still a ghost, and her place was with the servants, in the Dovecote. But that wasn’t what he had meant.
“Have you seen her recently, in the last two days?”
Keegan shook his head again. “Not since I returned. Why?”
“Nothing. I just wondered where she was.”
“I hope that girl doesn’t lose spirit under all the work the Rector is loading her with,” Keegan said. “She will make a fine Gifter, when she is raised.”
“Do you think she will be? Raised, that is.”
“I can’t see any reason why she shouldn’t be,” Keegan answered, throwing a mildly puzzled look Ashley’s way.
“But she is not ready yet,” Ashley noted.
“In the Rector’s opinion.”
The way he said it left Ashley no doubt. If the decision had been Keegan’s to make, Tabitha would be an apprentice already. It set his mind at ease—he hadn’t made a mistake in teaching her, albeit in secret. Since her behaviour inside the inner sanctum, he had questioned his judgement in trading spells. It was all right if she were becoming a Lightgifter, but if she was not to be raised, then he was sharing secrets that should not be shared, not with one outside the order.
The way Tabitha had snubbed him in the inner sanctum still hurt. He had expected her to share the discovery, and yet she had withheld the knowledge she had gained in the chamber of the Sage, as if he was somehow unworthy of it. Maybe that was it—she had been avoiding him these past few days, because she did not want to tell him her secret.
It was unfair. He had received only pain for his efforts. It had taken days for the effect of the Spriteblind trap to clear from his vision. That first day after their foray had been the worst. He had been able to see little more than hazy shapes amidst the burning dots of light, and he had kept on walking into things. It had been all he could do to hide his condition from the others.
He set his thoughts of Tabitha aside. She could look after herself, and when he returned, there would be no more secret lessons.
The pace of the Lightgifters was slow despite their eagerness, because of the carts. It took half an hour to descend through the city of Levin, whereupon they reached the level stoneroad leading to Wendelnip, Kironkiln, and Fendwarrow. Liquid sunshine pooled beside them wherever they went. The Light sped forwards in tendrils to form new pools as the Gifters maintained their command over their sprites. Most of the Light had been drained from the Dovecote for the mission, under the Rector’s insistence. The Source would produce more, given enough time. It was imperative that Ravenscroft be cleared of all traces of Dark.
* * *
There had been a commotion within the Dovecote for a few hours; now it was gone. Tabitha held onto the bars at her window. The cell behind was full of boredom, dust and loneliness. The chamber-pot had begun to smell. No matter how she tried, she could not find the peace of atonement she was supposed to be seeking.
It was a bright spring day outside, with a brilliant sun in a royal blue sky. She took a deep breath of the clear air, but it only made her longing for freedom more acute. She sang a soft ballad to the leaves of the silken tree, hoping to find solace in the song. There was no essence to play with, clear or otherwise. The quiet that returned when she ended the ballad was oppressive.
She was almost of a mind to sing again, when the door burst open. The Rector.
Her heart sank. She kept her gaze downcast. She knew she was supposed to be atoning, which probably didn’t mean singing, in the Rector’s opinion.
He called her to him, and she shuffled across the cell toward the door. When she stood before him, and dared to glance upward, she saw his smile.
“A fine day, what?” His cheeks puffed outward.
“Yes, Rector,” she stammered.
“Well, shall we begin with your studies?”
“Studies?” Tabitha was dumbfounded.
He smiled a broader smile, revealing slightly crooked teeth.
“I’d like to test you, to see if you have the aptitude. No point in us having you wasting your time, when there’s so much work for a Lightgifter to do. That is, of course, if you still wish to become a Lightgifter?”
“I do,” she replied, breathlessly.
“And are you ready to make reparation for your deeds, or do you need more atoning?” He looked her up and down.
“I’m ready.
I’m sorry for what I did, Rector.”
“Right, well come along then.”
He set a brisk pace through the Dovecote, down the stairs to the Hall of Sky, then through the northern doors. When they had crossed the Sandfield and passed into the grounds beyond, he dropped back to walk beside her. The grass sprung pleasantly underfoot. It was wonderful to be outside. She dared a question on the strength of his present good mood.
“Rector, where has everybody gone?”
“Were you not—of course, you wouldn’t know. Ravenscroft has been conquered, girl. I sent as many Gifters as I could spare, and all our essence, to the Swords. There is much healing to be done.”
If the Sword had been victorious, then Garyll Glavenor had to be all right as well. She wanted to believe the good news, but her stomach had turned cold. Something was strange about the words, something didn’t ring true. Why would the Rector lie to her? She knew she should challenge him, but a sharp glance from the Rector warned her not to. His good cheer was only skin deep. She kept quiet. She wanted to earn his approval. She didn’t want to spend any more time locked away in the dust. She wanted to be a Lightgifter.
They left the mass of the Dovecote behind and closed on a small stone chapel. Tabitha had never seen the inside of the chapel. She had heard that only the Rector and a few of the most senior Gifters were allowed to cross its hallowed floor. The Rector opened the door, and ushered her inside.
The chapel was cool, and had a pervading smell of damp about it. Two squat antechambers stood side by side. The Rector guided her towards them with a hand low on her back. When they came close, the Rector slowed her by pulling on the fabric of her dress from behind. There were beads of sweat on his upper lip, and a hungry cast to his eye.
A horrible fear began to take shape. His hand was still on the small of her back, his body near. They were alone. His hand slid down an inch. Tabitha closed her eyes, and gathered a scream. But the Rector withdrew his hand then, and patted her on the shoulder, before stepping away.
“Where you stand now has the best acoustics for the Morningsong. Try it. Sing just the first note.”
Relief washed over her. She had been mistaken.
What had I been thinking? Fool girl, he’s the Rector.
She hastily drew a breath, and began the oldest of the Lightgifters’ songs.
The note fell flat amongst the shadows and beams. There was nothing remarkable about the acoustics of the chapel. The many facets and angles of the inside walls made her voice sound dull. She looked questioningly toward the Rector.
“No, no, you must sing in a higher octave, what? It only happens on the higher notes.”
She sang the note again, an octave above the first. The Rector tensed, close to her once more. His expression was unreadable, but he nodded.
“Higher.”
She was becoming puzzled, but threw her head back and sang the note in the highest octave anyway.
The Rector grabbed the back of her head, and with his free hand jammed something into her mouth. It stank of stale toes and shoe-leather. She gagged on it, and struggled to escape his sudden grasp, but he tied a piece of cord behind her head, painfully tight. Tabitha fought desperately against him, but she could not break free. He bound her hands behind her back, as well.
No, no, no, no please not this, not like this, not here, oh no. No. No!
Tears stung her eyes. The Rector held her from behind, one large arm lifting her breasts, the other hand twisted her chin toward him.
“You are lucky it is only gold I care for,” the Rector whispered, his breath hot on her ear. “You would make a tasty morsel. Maybe when my friend is done with you, I shall change my mind, before I banish you from the Dovecote.”
The door to the antechamber opened, and she was shoved through.
There was a sharp damp odour, of soggy fabric and of something vaguely rotten. The door banged closed behind her, and the bolt was shot.
The Rector was not with her, she realised. Her lungs heaved against the restraint of the gag. A narrow lancet window did little to pierce the gloom of the chamber. Something moved in the corner, the dark shape of a man. Her legs turned to jelly. The figure crossed a thin ray of sunlight. She screamed into her gag.
The Shadowcaster stretched to his full height before her, his grin a sliver of white beneath yellowed eyes. His skin had a pasty pallor to it.
Her feet scrabbled for purchase, her back thumped into the door. She tried the latch, but it held firm, she couldn’t move it with her wrists bound.
Kirjath Arkell advanced, and pinned her to the door. He stank. She turned her face away from him, but his cold, soft hand gripped her jaw and forced her attention forwards. She couldn’t bear to look directly upon those bloodshot eyes, so she dropped her gaze. On his collar dangled a shattered piece of dark crystal.
The Shadowcaster didn’t speak. He held her pinned against the door for what seemed like an age. She was too terrified to move.
Tabitha risked a glance to his face at last, and beheld eyes bereft of reason, a mad glare that changed its focus with every heartbeat. When nothing had happened for a while longer, she found a moment of courage, and tried to break free. She wrenched with all her might, making to dive clear of the door.
The Shadowcaster caught her. His eyes had cleared, and she was slammed back against the door.
“Surprised to see me?”
Tabitha couldn’t respond.
“I’ve brought you a present, from the Master.”
She flinched when he drew his fist close to her face. He opened it, and she flinched again. A dark crystal orb, fashioned like the Lightstone, but as black as night.
“Be grateful!” he shouted. “An unblemished Darkstone! Look at it! Perfect.” He closed his fist around it, and hit her. She fell to the floor. He heaved her to her feet again. She tasted blood filtering through her teeth.
“Bitch!” he shouted. Then his eyes became unfocused. He winced, and jerked against her.
“Put it around her neck. Put it around her neck,” he whispered.
When she grasped his intention, she went wild. She thrashed under his grip, kicked out at his shins. It was as if he didn’t notice, or didn’t care. He used his body weight to pin her against the door, and looped a chain around her neck with single-minded purpose.
The snap of the clasp sounded behind her. Tabitha was paralysed with sudden cold and dread.
The Shadowcaster released her, and stroked the Darkstone at her throat. Then he spat upon the Lightstone nestled beside it. He jerked away, like a puppet on a string twitched by another’s hand. Then he sat down suddenly.
He began to shout at the walls.
Then he stared, slack-jawed.
He seemed quite mad.
Tabitha was only vaguely aware of the Shadowcaster’s actions. A black whirlpool roared in her head, sucking her into a maw she could not escape. Her vision faded to darkness, a silence wrapped itself around her, and cold entered her heart. She knew that her legs had buckled, yet her body was a distant thing, beyond her command. There was a pattern twined through the darkness close by, a disturbance she could feel rather than see, a pattern she was being guided to appreciate. A spell that was both unfamiliar and ominous. She tried to shy away from it, but her body would not respond, and part of her knew it was useless to try. She was not in a place she could run away from. The darkness and the pattern were in her mind. She could only try to turn her attention elsewhere, away from the pattern.
Then she felt him. A presence, within the darkness, someone who watched her without revealing himself, but he was there nonetheless. He was hidden behind her, though turning did nothing to reveal him. A voice filled the silence, rising through layer upon layer of her own fear and dread.
I am the shadow and he is my master.
He is the shadow and I am his caster.
She moaned through her gag, and fled the touch of the Darkmaster in her mind. Her feet thrashed on the floor, but she didn’t try to stand. It
was within her mind that she had to flee. Any thoughts of the voice or the darkness led her closer to that awful presence. She reached for her memories, and ran through them as if they were autumn leaves, their faded colours vivid against the blackness which chased her heels.
A moment when she had watched her mother baking bread in their home at Phantom Acres. Sleeping under the tree, her father waking her to help with the sheep. The Shadowcaster crashing through the big window, shards of glass raining down on her. The burned ruin of the homestead. Her parents corpses, as dry as the charcoal they lay in.
The Dark tore through her memories, and there was nothing for her to cling to for refuge. The pattern and the voice returned, the presence of the Darkmaster swelled to embrace her, smothering her with fear, cold, and the urgent compulsion to accept Him as her Master.
Lightgifter. I am a Lightgifter!
Laughter echoed in the suddenly paling darkness.
I wait for you. Power waits for you.
Her vision swam with darkness. “No!” she cried. “No!”
She became aware of her surroundings again. She was sprawled on the floor, her breath came in short gasps through the dirty fabric that filled her mouth. The gloomy antechamber appeared bright, compared to the darkness which she had endured. The Shadowcaster was moving in a corner. The door was unguarded. She scrabbled to her feet, with one thought in mind.
A jet of Dark essence burst forth from the shadows. Motes wrapped her legs in fine tendrils which quickly thickened and pinned her to the wall. When the Shadowcaster spoke and the spell matured, her legs were claimed by the terrible cold she remembered from a night she wished she didn’t.
She couldn’t move, but Kirjath Arkell could.
He came across the chamber with a hungry, feral cast to his eyes. He wet his lips. He laughed, then fell upon her. He ripped her dress open. It tore to the waist, exposing her undershirt. He tore that as well. Cold air touched her breasts. She screamed, but the gag smothered her cry, and a slimy hand clamped her throat tight. He touched the Darkstone, and strange thoughts she didn’t want to think assaulted her.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 52