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

by Greg Hamerton

  That was, they told Zarost, before the Writhe had come.

  It was created so far away from their position on the third axis of magic that even if they pooled their talents, they were not able to mirror its magnitude. The orientation of the spell was still close on the third axis, but the level to which it had been taken, the reach from the zero-point, was formidable. As individual wizards, they could not hope to reach beyond the first level. As the Gyre, their power combined, but even so they had been limited by their number to seventh-level spells without Zarost present in their circle, and then only within those rare moments of perfect cooperation. That was the disadvantage of depending on Knowledge for wisdom—none of them could reach beyond the sum of their single-minded total. But the Writhe was at least an eighth-level weave—they couldn’t even discern the fundamental pattern that Ametheus had used to drive his worm into existence. They were certain it still used essence, but it heralded the kind of advance only the sorcerer could achieve, by reaching beyond Knowledge, by reaching for his source. Ametheus had tapped into the next level of power.

  They needed the Riddler in their circle, they needed eight minds and lores together to reach an eighth-level magnitude of power and so pierce the complexity of the Writhe. Only then would they have a hope of opposing their antithesis and bringing balance to the third axis.

  An idle tongue of wildfire licked across the rubbled track in Meliness, and the earth rippled slightly at the touch of Chaos, but nothing came of it, for the Writhe had already claimed the life within that soil. On the edge of the tail of sheddings, the Castle of Meliness still stood, inhabited by bloodbirds and mean-faced trolls since the last Atheling family in Moral had fallen, almost a century past. The northern wall had been stripped from the building by the passing Writhe, as had the outer and inner bastions on that side. The trolls might have been drawn from their lair, to become a few pebbles in the tail of sheddings, for nothing moved within the Castle any more.

  Oldenworld was falling further into ruin. Zarost had not believed that Ametheus could do much more to the Lowlands—there was so little remaining of the old beauty of the Three Kingdoms—but here even the ugliness which had replaced it was being torn apart. He urged the Mystery to move the image further, into old Orenland.

  There were low wet clouds boiling everywhere west of Thren Fernigan. The Gyre travelled down low, over the wild cotton groves, into the hot valleys choked with vapours and rampant growth. The monsters that hunted and hid amongst the tangled vegetation shouted and howled and barked, a yammering noise that grew ever more as they moved west, where creatures that Zarost had no name for filled the open places, feasting upon fruit, or upon each other, dark unfortunate things which had survived the Sorcerer’s latest whims.

  Zarost concentrated on the effect of the Writhe alone, to limit his developing sickness of spirit.

  The diameter of destruction had been noticeably smaller near Thren Fernigan, the span of two fallen trees, and it diminished to a width barely big enough to swallow the eroded kilns of the old glassworks at Ross Relawere. The last of the beaches were gone, smothered by the advance of the Growing Lands which had flowed in from the sea like a fetid tide and never flowed away from the shore again. Ametheus had grown all manner of things in the warm brine, things which had died and grown hard and allowed other things to live upon the structure of their remains.

  The Gyre could not follow the trail of the Writhe much further into the swamps and fens of the western Lowlands, where fat slugs rolled upon one another in the mud and nervous waterfowl dodged through a haze of deadly insects, searching for the rare ones that were palatable. They had come too close to the Sorcerer’s presence for comfort, it would be too easy for Ametheus to trace them back to the secret location of the Gyre Sanctuary. They all knew that the origin of the Writhe was in Turmodin; its track continued, due west. The worm would have emerged from the Pillar in Turmodin as thin as a hair; a mere fibre of disorder. An eighth-level spell indeed, Zarost thought, so subtle at its source it would have had no effect at all, and yet it had grown to a maelstrom of destruction, under its own momentum. Such an escalating spell was the worst kind to counter, for it intensified the longer it was left unchecked.

  The Mystery reversed their course.

  When they followed the course of the Writhe quickly east, then south, back past the Winterblades to the Land of Lûk, a terrible suspicion grew in Zarost’s belly, for if the curve of the Writhe was extended beyond Jho-down, it would find Rek, then through the grey wastes, and then the Shield of Eyri. He pressed his palms to his eyes, wanting to block out the visions of inevitability, but knowing he could not.

  “Yes, we know where it is heading, Riddler. You must abandon Eyri.”

  He hardly heard the Senior’s words.

  “The Shield was finished off by seven of us, when you were left within,” the Senior continued. “It holds only a seventh-level weave—we never considered how far Ametheus might go. If this is an eighth-level spell, then the Writhe might burst through the Shield.”

  “But if you haven’t discerned the pattern of the spell then you aren’t certain it is an eighth. It might be of the seventh or even the sixth level,” he countered weakly.

  “Do you want to gamble your life on what you expect Ametheus did? You can’t predict Chaos, Riddler.”

  Flowerton, it would hit Flowerton first, after consuming the falls at River’s End. The Amberlake would be sucked dry from the northern end of the Storms River, and the village of Flowerton would be emptied just as Jho-down had been. For some reason he thought of a homely tavern that he had been planning to visit on his return, the Wayfayrer’s Inn—it always had a warm hearth, it always held good tales. The folk in Flowerton were totally unaware of what was approaching.

  Flowerton, Levin, Stormhaven. That precious sanctuary for all that was good in Oldenworld would be lost. Eyri would be gone. It was too dear to his heart to set aside in a moment.

  “The flowers came out late this year, the sheep have better wool. They’ve learned to make a stainless steel, and a clock that needs no pull.” His words always rhymed when he wanted to hide his feelings.

  “You have to get out, Riddler,” repeated the Senior. “We can not save it.”

  “The palace dungeon’s empty, though it ought to hold someone. The roofs of the Isle glisten still, when they catch the morning sun.”

  “You must leave! It is over,” stated the Cosmologer.

  The Lifesong would be silenced. Young Tabitha Serannon would lose her chance to find her power, she would lose her chance at life.

  No. He would not abandon the Seeker—he was her Riddler. She must find the wizard.

  The Senior watched him from the far side of the pool. “Help us, Riddler. Join us to meet this Writhe.”

  The Gyre waited. The seven needed one more. He was needed outside of Eyri.

  He was needed within.

  “Leave your petty attachments behind,” the Cosmologer accused. “It is your duty to join us!”

  “Gently, Cosmologer,” the Spiritist cautioned. “There is a something the Riddler has not spoken of, and he fights it within his soul.”

  Zarost watched the water from his dripping sleeve throw ripples in the puddle at his feet. All the while, he could sense the tension in the chamber rising.

  Tabitha, Tabitha, Tabitha. If only she had come through earlier; if only there was time.

  “We have the brewings of a war, in Eyri,” he said wistfully.

  “A war, in Eyri?” replied the Warlock. “Then order has been corrupted already, it has failed its purpose. We can set it aside.”

  “And there is a new Seeker,” he added.

  The word touched all seven at once, just as the ripples in his puddle had found the edge of the circle in the same moment. Seeker. The vision of the Writhe disappeared from the pool, but no one objected.

  “Is he to be another stepping stone, this new Seeker, or does he really have a chance?” the Senior asked.

  �
�She,” the Riddler corrected. “She is moving on the path, but her steps lead her towards a danger I do not like.”

  “There is always danger on the path!” the Cosmologer snapped. “Why should there not be hardships for a Seeker? Have you forgotten the way of your apprenticeship?”

  “What danger is she in?” asked the Senior, cutting across the Cosmologer’s slight.

  “The previous Seeker developed great coercion,” answered Zarost. “There is a danger that she shall be turned from the path and be manipulated to become the Darkmaster’s minion.”

  The Mentalist appeared puzzled. “Surely then she shall lose the Ring? If she fails to follow the true path, she shall fail to attract it.”

  “We can’t afford that,” Zarost asserted. “Not with this one.”

  “Why is she any different? Aren’t they always under threat?” asked the Cosmologer, clearly irritated.

  “You don’t get strong salmon without thinning out the minnows,” added the Warlock.

  “Thinning the minnows! Have a heart, Warlock! Have a heart.”

  It was easy to forget how ruthless the members of the council could be. Power was the only thing which really mattered, in the Greater Warlock’s eyes. True of all wizards, though most hid it well.

  “I want to intervene,” said Zarost. “I want to clear the path before her, before it is too late.”

  Three wizards spoke at once. “No!” objected the Cosmologer as the Mentalist declared, “Definitely not!” and the Warlock boomed, “Out of the question!”

  The Mystery was gazing out the window. She, of all the Gyre, listened with a different ear. She could probably hear that he wasn’t calm, beneath the calm words. Her attention would return soon, he had no doubt.

  Even the Senior appeared unsettled. “The magic must evolve in its own fashion, Riddler. If intervention is truly needed, you would be supporting the weaker strain. It can’t be allowed.”

  The Cosmologer looked down her nose at Zarost. “That you should even question it! What has caused such poor judgement?”

  “I pity you who see this judgement poor! The Seeker calls upon the Lifesong,” he announced.

  The silence was complete, except for the slow drips from Zarost’s clothes.

  The Cosmologer was tight-lipped, her indignation battling against uncertainty.

  “How sure can you be?” the Lorewarden asked, at length.

  “As sure as one can be after hearing her first stanza echo off the sky. It ran through everything in Eyri, even though the sound was faint due to her inexperience.”

  “Others heard it?” the Lorewarden asked.

  “I had to work hard to ensure she survived what she had brought upon herself with that first singing.”

  “So you have already interfered with the course of events!” the Cosmologer crowed, desperate to find some fault with him to make herself seem better.

  “No, Cosmologer, he did the right thing, so long as his efforts were balanced,” said the Lorewarden. “Using the Lifesong! That is something beyond imagining. You have not used magic to interfere, have you, Riddler?”

  “I have ground my teeth on the oath, but I have heeded it.”

  “Always speaking truth in crooked ways, but never crooked truth,” said the Spiritist, smiling gently, her grey hair framing her sprightly face. Zarost hoped she was the only one who truly understood his riddled answer. Heeding something was different to obeying it. Just a little.

  “Good Riddler,” she continued, “many singers have heard echoes of the Lifesong. How can you be sure that the Seeker isn’t just a good listener? What has she achieved that shows she has gone beyond the words and is able to use the power?”

  “She used the high note, the Shiver, to hold a Morgloth.”

  “Full of concealed news today, aren’t you?” she scolded, but Zarost could see the Spiritist was impressed.

  “How long had this girl been under your tutelage, when she used that Shiver?” the Senior asked.

  “Ten days.”

  The Warlock was incredulous. “In ten days this girl has learned enough to hold a Morgloth? What have you been teaching her, man?”

  “She has always been a singer. Since she took up the Ring, she has begun to see what lies beneath the surface of the world. I have only been answering that which she asked, in the riddled way. She explores her own power.”

  The Warlock whistled softly. “She reaches beyond knowledge then, just as Ametheus does.” His eyes grew hard. “How do we know she will not unleash Chaos upon us all?”

  “No, Warlock, not Chaos! Not with the Lifesong!” objected the Spiritist.

  “How do you know? Who knows more than a chapter about that lore?” He swung his gaze around the circle, but no one could provide an immediate challenge. “If she mastered a lore so different to ours,” he continued, “she could take her power in any direction she wished. Either end of the third axis would respond to her call. How would we contain her, if she worked a different lore?”

  “From what I remember, the Lifesong is a vibration, a resonance, and it is not dependant on any of the three axes of magic for its power,” said the Cosmologer. “She might not need essence at all. But that is of no use to us! We need a Wizard in our circle, not a Bard.”

  “Magic, without essence?” asked the Mentalist incredulously. “Is that true, Lorewarden?”

  The Lorewarden rubbed his chin. “Ahm—possibly. The Lifesong is so ancient, and so badly scribed. We knew little more than the melodies, even in the time before the Sorcerer, and most of the books which mentioned the actual practice of the lore were lost in Kinsfall. We’ve all read the piece in Creation And Control which the Warlock referred to, which describes it as the ‘lilting echo of the Goddess, carrying more than the words of each verse, spilling forth like a wind from the chosen voice as if through a window, unseen, undeniable, its sovereign force linking everything in the dominion of life’. What it carries, and how it achieves this is not known, but I can say that the First Masters of the College spoke of it with great awe, forgive me if I include you wrongly there, Senior.”

  “Fair words, Lorewarden, quite fair—I was one of those awed Masters. A true singer of the Lifesong! It is rare to wield even a hint of such an ability. It is not like most other lores, you could practise it all your life and grow no better at it. Admittedly there is little available to study. I set the songs aside when it became clear that I was not chosen for it. There is power there, but only for those to whom the power comes.”

  “Yet if it can change the world without the use of essence, it poses a threat to our effectiveness,” the Mentalist said. “How could we hope to keep Order in our spells, if something contrary worked beneath our patterns, something which could change those patterns itself?”

  “I agree!” said the Cosmologer. “Maybe it is better this Seeker does not emerge from Eyri. We have enough Chaos to contend with as it is.”

  Zarost rose from his seat. In all his years of working with the Gyre, he’d never felt as different from them as he did now. They were arguing about the value of the Lifesong! He would get what he wanted from these belligerent wizards, or he’d eat his estranged hat.

  “She will not wield Chaos, you idiots! Three days ago, she created life with her first stanza. New life! She has tapped into that higher world, she has sung with the voice of Ethea.”

  The Lorewarden was suddenly animated. “Then she walks in the footsteps of the Goddess! I agree with the Riddler, this lore is so rare, this Seeker is too precious to risk to the challenges of the conventional path—she must be protected, until she has mastered her art.”

  Zarost raised the palm of his hand. He wanted to catch them before the current mood of wonder had faded, before they bickered and bargained about specifics. “I appeal for the Gyre’s vote! Let me promote the Seeker now, and take her from the crucible. She can come here, to learn her way.”

  They were still excited, but only the Senior, Spiritist and Lorewarden supported him. The Mentalist, Wa
rlock and Cosmologer did not, and they voiced their objections simultaneously. Three votes to three, and his own vote wouldn’t count, for he had brought the appeal. Zarost turned to the Mystery, who held the casting vote. She was still faced towards the window, but she returned slowly from her muse. She would decide the Gyre’s course. Zarost knew that she had been listening, all along. The private sparkle had left her eyes. Sometimes, Zarost wished she wasn’t so wise.

  She stood, which caused the many layers of her green gossamer dress to dance upon her body. “Listen to yourselves. Only because of the Writhe are you considering this. Can you not see that the presence of Chaos is inducing disorder in your own thoughts? Riddler, you have tried to manoeuvre us from the path of clear reasoning with your dramatic delivery of news, which tells me that you know what you ask would not be granted were we to consider it fully. To make things easier for an apprentice is never the way to find the wizard. Especially with one more talented than most—she should have opportunity to prove herself against all challengers, not have the world tamed for her. And yet, we need the ninth member of the Gyre, we need you to succeed—Ametheus is in a growing phase now, he’s reached this eighth-level horror of the Wranglewrithe, which we shall be hard-pressed to cure. What if he reaches a ninth-level manipulation, I am thinking? He could shake the eight of us off the opposing pole of the third axis, Order would be naked and the Sorcerer’s misrule would be unchecked. If the Gyre becomes nine, we might hold him, we might turn him before he grows! We have this one chance, and we must not waver so close to the victory. We may have succeeded, she may well be the one we have hoped for for so long, but she has not yet found the wizard, and that is always the key. If you take her out now, she will be too influenced by the great Chaos prevalent in Oldenworld. She must learn her way within the purified environment of Eyri. So I must vote against your appeal—we cannot intervene: if she is destined to find the wizard, she shall overcome the challenges she faces in Eyri, and grow stronger by doing so. The greater the crucible, the greater the wizard she shall find in its centre.