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

by Greg Hamerton

  Tabitha used the pretence of putting the lyre back in her bag to avoid the awkward praise. But they were still watching her expectantly when she straightened.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It felt good to sing the Morningsong with you.”

  Ashley smiled. He pointed to the channel at the rim of the Scribbillarre, where the sprites had collected. “Thanks to you, we can help the Swords, if the Shadowcasters come tonight. We should decide on a plan.”

  “Couldn’t we just throw Light at the Dark? It fizzles out, becomes clear essence.”

  “Really? I was thinking more of the forbidden spells, the Flameburst and Spriteblind. They might have enough power.”

  “Ashley!” exclaimed Sister Grace. “We can’t use those, they are too dangerous, they were forbidden for good reason. And Tabitha might be right, we might only need to mix the essences. I have heard of it being done. But how do you know of that, Tabitha?”

  “I—came across a few motes, recently.”

  She couldn’t tell them the motes had been summoned by her hand, controlled by her Darkstone.

  Sister Grace looked puzzled, but she didn’t pry. “It might work, but if they have a greater number of motes, we would lose all of our Light essence and still be found wanting.”

  “Then we must try the Morningsong again,” said Ashley. “Build our strength.”

  “Not for a while yet,” Grace disagreed. “We have taken what sprites we can from the Source for this morning, and far more than I expected.”

  Tsoraz came running in through the East-door, cloak flapping. “Morrigán!” he announced, halting on the threshold. “Morrigán all around!”

  They ran to look. It was true. Black ravens dived and swooped around a distant patrol of few Swords. The Swords had their weapons drawn, but the birds dodged the blades with ease, flapping and mocking the men from above their heads. The hoarse cries of the birds set Tabitha’s teeth on edge. She knew a sudden alarm. Where there were Morrigán, there were Shadowcasters.

  Ashley raced down the stairs, and hauled the mighty East-door closed. It swung ponderously on giant hinges, and slammed against the frame. Tabitha helped him set the bar in place, though her hands shook.

  We should rouse the Swords within the Dovecote.

  She turned on this thought, only to see the door to the men’s corridor being closed. The rotund man who set the bar in place wore a purple robe. When he turned and summoned the Light essence to his hand in the same motion, she recognised him, in one dreadful moment.

  The Rector Shamgar.

  A broad smile was stretched across his face, a forced expression which did not suit him.

  “Welcome back, welcome back,” the Rector said, “I was not expecting you back so soon. What a wonderful surprise.” His eyes said it wasn’t. Sprites massed around his hands—most of what they had created. Tabitha was too surprised to act.

  “Have you forgotten your manners, Gifters? You will kneel before your Rector. If you are quick, I may forgive your transgression.”

  No one moved. Shamgar’s face gained a shade of red.

  “By your Vow I compel you. You shall kneel before your Rector!”

  He wove a pattern in the sprites, and sent some of them flickering through the air towards them. Tabitha’s Lightstone bloomed warmth against her throat. She felt a compulsion to obey the Rector’s command, but it was faint enough to ignore. But for Ashley and Sister Grace, it did not seem to go so easy. They sank to the floor, and Ashley pressed his head to the stone at his knees.

  “If you had taken the Vow, Miss Serannon, you would understand what it is to be a Lightgifter, to be sworn to serve the Light and your Rector. A pity that you are so untrained, what? The Vow is quite compelling.”

  The Rector advanced across the Hall, his gaze steady. He passed a gap in the Scribbillarre, a dark trapdoor, similar to the one Tabitha had used to reach the Inner Sanctum. She stared at it with growing dread. It must have been how the Rector had sneaked up on them. There was something else down there, besides darkness. She could feel its advance like the coming of a cold wind.

  “My friends shared an old secret with me, a wonder of architecture,” the Rector commented. “Could you believe that there is a doorway in the floor? Quite amazing what the essence can be used for.”

  “You can come up!” he shouted, facing the trapdoor. “The Swords are out, at last. There is nobody here but two useless Gifters, a commoner, and an unskilled girl who has already been given to the Dark. The Morrigán have done their task well—we have the Hall.”

  Ashley and Grace were still held by the Vow. Tsoraz looked uncertain, and shifted from foot to foot. His staff was at hand, but he didn’t look inclined to use it.

  Tabitha edged close to him. “Will you help me?” she whispered.

  “This is not my fight,” he muttered, to himself as much as to her.

  “What is your fight, then?”

  “Guiding you. Not leading you.”

  “Guide me then!” she hissed. The Rector was closing on them.

  “You are promised to neither, so can use both.”

  A riddle, in the face of adversity. She could have screamed at him in frustration. She backed away from the Rector, and Tsoraz stepped easily beside her.

  Tabitha tried to summon the Light to her hand, but all the sprites were bound to the Rector, and his command was stronger than hers. He sneered at her as he tightened his grip on the essence. He had it all.

  “You believe you can make a difference, against the coming of the Master?” She backed away. Shamgar snorted. “Behold, what you are up against.”

  The Dark entered the Hall of Sky.

  At first it was just a tendril, like a black snake, curling out of the trapdoor, writhing across the marble floor. A gust carried motes in a low, roiling cloud. Tabitha stumbled away from it, and found herself running for the dais with Tsoraz. Dark essence flooded the Hall at her heels. She could do nothing for Ashley and Grace. When she had mounted the stairs beneath the Source, she turned, and saw the Gifters writhing against the cold touch of Dark. The Rector remained beside them, holding them with the compulsion of their Vow, but he laughed at Tabitha. Beyond the kneeling Gifters, a dark figure pulled itself up to the Scribbillarre.

  The cowled Shadowcaster was wreathed in motes, a funnel of Dark centred on her body like a whirlwind blasting through ash. It was a woman, Tabitha was sure, from the way her robe hung. The call of the Dark, which had driven her to despair in Stormhaven, whispered all around the Hall, urging her to reach out and draw the motes to her own hand. But she also wanted to gather all the Light from the Rector, and destroy the Dark.

  While Tabitha’s emotions warred, the other Shadowcasters climbed from the secret passage. Those who followed the woman were bigger, and they moved like men. A final rush of motes followed the sixth man from the open hole. The Shadowcasters arranged themselves in a circle around the Source. Tabitha could retreat no further—the crystal obelisk pressed against her back.

  The lead Shadowcaster shielded her eyes with a hand held close to her cowl, as if the sunlight pouring in the windows of the Hall was painful. After a few moments she turned, and scanned the rest of the Hall. She laughed then, a sound of honeyed seduction. The Shadowcasters joined her, though their voices were rough by comparison.

  “This is the last resistance of the Light, Rector Shamgar? What a sweet way to end it—with two Gifters, two commoners, and a cupful of sprites.”

  “Be done with it, woman. The Swords will not be fooled for long.”

  “Then we shall deal with them,” she answered. But Tabitha noticed that the Shadowcaster began immediately with a spell pattern, guiding the motes into a smooth current around the Hall. The other Shadowcasters joined her, building the large, unified spell. It was a great circle, but imperfect, like one made from a twisted ribbon. The air was thick with motes.

  “Link with me,” the woman ordered, and the current of motes became denser, changing from black mist to vitriol. The Shad
owcasters chanted in unison, a slow, deep dirge.

  “Are you ready for me?” Rector Shamgar asked. He strode into the circle without awaiting the reply. He held a cloud of sprites high, clear of the Dark essence. The motes rippled where he broke their current with his legs, but the flow resumed at once. He sent the Light outward in a flow which mirrored that of the Dark, joining it in the design of the twisted circle. The Rector approached Tabitha, Tsoraz, and the Source.

  “Step away, commoners, I have work to do.”

  “The work of treachery,” accused Tabitha.

  The Rector shook his head sadly. “In time, you will learn that treachery fetches a higher price than honesty. Now begone!”

  Tabitha had less strength in her legs than a new-born lamb, yet she refused to move. Before her stood the man who should have led the Lightgifters against the evil of Ravenscroft. Instead, he had planned their downfall. As a Lightgifter, she had to defy him. Everything he had done, had been to weaken the Dovecote.

  They must have paid him dearly, made it worth his while. She whispered the words of a summoning, holding the double-looped pattern in mind, focusing on her Lightstone. But the Rector’s will was stronger, and his command of the sprites remained. He stepped close, and reached for her. Tsoraz blocked his hand.

  “A traitor has no right to compel the faithful.”

  “Who are you? How dare you insult me, you miserable common filth! Step aside!” He came up close to Tsoraz. “Or would you prefer the Dark in your ear?” His breath must have upset the butterfly, for it took flight from somewhere upon the bard’s cloak.

  “You would know what it is like to have the Dark in your ear,” Tsoraz mocked. “Do you really believe Cabal will keep his word, when your use has passed?”

  “What we do is no concern to you! Stand aside!”

  The delicate coloured butterfly came between them, but the Rector reached up suddenly, and caught it with a sharp clap of his hands.

  “Bloody spring plague.” He released the dead butterfly.

  Tsoraz stared at the fallen, squashed creature. His face was unreadable.

  “Close the circle, let us be done,” announced the Rector. He stepped around Tsoraz, pushed Tabitha aside, and placed his hands on the Source. The seven Shadowcasters paced inwards, bringing the twisted circle closer.

  The staff was a whistling blur. It caught the Rector flat on the temple, and broke upon his skull, sending a splintered shaft spinning away into the air. Tsoraz was possessed with fury. The power of it was more terrifying than anything Tabitha had witnessed, it washed over her with raw force, setting her hair on end.

  “The first of the Lifesong! That was my butterfly! A living sign!” Tsoraz shouted at the falling Rector. “Thus you pay, for taking what was.”

  He turned to Tabitha. An ultimate rage burned in his eyes. His power shimmered around him. “Now act, Tabitha, or all is lost! This is not my test!”

  The command jolted Tabitha from her stunned reverie. The Shadowcasters were all around, their circle fast closing. The Light essence followed the pattern, following the last command of the Rector. But he lay at her feet, beside a dead butterfly.

  Tabitha summoned the sprites. They pulled away from the Turning spell without resistance, speeding for their new master. Her Ring was a band of heat. There was one pattern Tabitha held clearly in mind, a spell she suspected would be magnified by the Source. She spoke the words her mother had sought to preserve.

  * * *

  Ashley didn’t know why he reached out to Tabitha at that moment, but the briefest touch of minds allowed him to see the pattern of the spell she intended. He warned Grace of the Spriteblind not an instant too soon.

  Even with his eyes closed, kneeling on the far limit of the Scribbillarre, Ashley was blinded by the brilliance of the flash. A blast of heat scorched his skin. Sister Grace groaned beside him. The Shadowcasters screamed.

  He opened his eyes to swirling spots of brightness. He jumped to his feet as his vision cleared. The Dark circle had collapsed, and the motes washed to the walls, unbounded. They stung his legs with cold. All around, Shadowcasters were clutching their heads, or crawling on their hands and knees, roaring in agony. He ran for the nearest, then stopped short.

  The Shadowcaster showed no sign of having noticed him. Ashley remembered only too well the agony of the Spriteblind. He raised his fist indecisively.

  Someone pounded on the East-door, and there were shouts. The Swords had noticed the commotion. All he needed to do was raise the bar on the door, and the Swords could deal with the Shadowcasters. He took one last glance around the Hall.

  Unbounded motes rushed about like smoke from a burning field, hiding Shadowcasters where they summoned motes in defence. Two figures were locked in a struggle, but it was not the black-robed man who made Ashley’s breath catch in his throat. Sister Grace was straining with all her might against the Shadowcaster’s powerful stranglehold.

  “Move, and I snap her neck!” the man shouted. “Nobody move!”

  Ashley was paralysed with fear. Even though he knew the Shadowcaster was blinded, he dared not take another step toward the door or the struggling figures.

  “Well done,” commended a honeyed voice.

  A wave of motes washed past, collecting on the strangler’s head. The man seemed to gain some benefit from it. Someone had command of the Dark; Ashley’s hope died a quick death. Motes struck him before he was even fully turned. A black figure approached him, one of the shorter Shadowcasters. A wisp of black essence curled upwards from the floor, and wrapped itself around the Shadowcaster’s slim waist. Ashley steeled himself for the effect of the spell. Something about the approaching Shadowcaster was terribly familiar.

  He reached out with his mind, and dived into the thoughts of the Shadowcaster. The Shadowcaster stopped suddenly, reached up slender hands, and pushed the cowl back. Ashley gasped. He should have guessed that it was a woman, by the way her robe clung to the body beneath it. The honeyed voice, the body movement. He looked into the Shadowcaster’s dark eyes, took in her cascading black hair, the sensuous lips, and was paralysed.

  Gabrielle.

  The dream woman, the seducer, the lover. Her power fell on him, and he understood why Tsoraz had warned him of his mind games. He knew why Father Keegan had been turned. He was caught by her seduction again, but so completely he couldn’t bring his attention back under his command.

  He could not resist her urgency. He forgot that he had meant to strike her with his fists. She was so lovely. Dark essence rose in whirlwind patterns up Gabrielle’s body, caressing her, exploring her. Her hungry gaze stopped his heart beating.

  Mercy! She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.

  The memory of her lovemaking with Keegan bloomed in his mind, but it was he who fell into her arms, he who cried out the words of the Turning. Pain seared through the fantasy. Cold claimed his body. Every muscle clenched as the Dark poured through him. He stared at Gabrielle. It was too late. He could not move.

  A flicker of a smile crossed Gabrielle’s lips, and she reached out a hand to caress Ashley’s paralysed face. If anything, the gesture made him colder, for he felt his own desire even though the Shadowcaster had struck him helpless.

  Gabrielle!

  She moved past him, and was gone from view. The edges of his vision were eaten by gnawing dark. He could see only a narrowing circle, wherein the Source stood upon its dais, and beside it, Tabitha Serannon. Then even that was lost. His heart sounded slow pulses in his ears. His rigid legs forced him to remain upright, staring into the darkness of his mind. There was no Light.

  * * *

  Tabitha’s eyes smarted. It had been like standing in the centre of the sun. She knew most of the Light must have been drained from the essence with the casting of the Spriteblind spell. Even before her vision returned in full, she could sense the Dark surging through the Hall again. At least one of the Shadowcasters had escaped the effect of the Spriteblind. She had done her best, and it had
not been enough. Something cold grabbed her ankles and held her. She didn’t bother to look down. She knew what it was.

  She looked instead for some sprites, and caught sight of them through a haze of receding blindness. They were high on the walls, and only a glimmer remained in them. She summoned them all to her hand; a weak haze of Light.

  “Move, and I snap her neck!” a man shouted. “Nobody move!”

  Sister Grace, held hostage by a big Shadowcaster. She saw their struggle in an instant, and knew she could not dare to do anything.

  The Dark whispered to her, called to her, urged her to let go. She wanted to. She knew she must. Very soon, she would be accepted into the family.

  I am the shadow and he is my master.

  He is the shadow and I am his caster.

  Then she saw the woman watching her. The deep cowl hid her features, but it felt as if her eyes touched Tabitha, a caress as intimate as a lover’s. Then the touch was gone, and the Shadowcaster turned towards Ashley.

  Tabitha watched in mute horror as the Shadowcaster bound Ashley in motes. At the same time, it was fascinating. She drew on the Ring to see the fine details of the Dark spell pattern. The woman wove a second pattern atop the first, and when it struck Ashley, he went rigid.

  She wanted to have that power, and yet she was repulsed by the thought. The sprites faltered in her hand, and some hissed to extinction against the motes which swirled at her feet. She supposed she should be cold, but she didn’t feel it.

  “Keep command of your Light, my dear,” commanded the lead Shadowcaster, her voice raised to carry from the floor. “We need you to complete the Turning spell.” She came closer, her movements as sinuous as a cat. “You will join us, now that you can see who shall win in the end?”

  When Tabitha did not answer, the Shadowcaster wove a brief pattern in the Dark, and sent it rippling through the air. The last tatters of hope were torn away in the current of motes. Tabitha tasted the spell of Despair once again. The Shadowcaster’s order became compelling.

  “Keep hold of the sprites. I shall instruct you when we are ready.”