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

by Greg Hamerton

  Tabitha obeyed. It was useless to resist.

  The Shadowcaster moved around the Hall, guiding motes to her fallen comrades. Soon, all six had regained their feet, if not all of their sight. They dragged Sister Grace to beside Ashley, and bound her in the same Freeze. Tabitha noticed that Tsoraz had disappeared. He must have fled up the stairs to a higher level of the Dovecote under the cover of the Spriteblind spell. How he had endured the spell better than the others she couldn’t guess. He had left her, abandoned her to her doom.

  The Swords pounded on the doors, both the East-door and the one to the men’s corridor, but the doors were well-barred from the inside.

  The Shadowcasters spaced themselves around the Source, and the twisted circle of motes took shape within their slow advance. The woman was watching her again.

  “You can see the pattern, girl. Guide your sprites to run alongside the motes, but do not let them touch.”

  Despite her fear, Tabitha hesitated. To work with the Shadowcasters, in this spell of Turning, would mean her own turning as well. She would be aiding those whom she had fought, and would become one of them. The Light would be taken from Eyri forever, and there would be only Dark. She felt herself teetering on the brink of ruin.

  She thought of her mother, the way she had given everything in the fight. She thought of Ashley, of all the hardships he had endured to bring warning. She thought of Garyll Glavenor. He would not have given in to the Dark. But even as she denied it, the Dark fed upon her anger and built a towering rage within her, a rage at the Shadowcasters gathered before her. She knew that if she used the Dark, she would become one of them herself. She hated herself for that, and it only made the rage swell, constricted in her clenched heart.

  She could find no release for her fury—she couldn’t beat the Shadowcasters in a contest of magic. They had too much Dark essence; she had a faint memory of Light in her command.

  “Come, join with us, let the Dark be your master.”

  A cold hand reached into her heart, and she was compelled to do as the woman asked. The hidden Darkstone Tabitha wore linked her to the woman in a bond that was stronger than blood. The sprites left her hand, and flowed to the twisted circle of essence, where the Light formed a skin upon the Dark, guided by Tabitha’s will and the pattern she held in mind.

  The Shadowcasters closed.

  “Now, hold your hands to the Source, and speak with us.”

  Tabitha mouthed the words as they became clear. Motes circled the dais in a hush. The air was chill.

  “Hold the pattern, round, and round,

  in the hidden turn, to the stronger will be bound.”

  The Source was smooth under her hands, so tall and clear, the true heart of the Dovecote. Without it, there would be no essence of either kind, Light or Dark; only clear essence, and peace.

  The Shadowcasters reached the first step of the dais.

  Her reflection was faint, and warped by the curved surface of the Source. A wide face, with sad eyes, above a neckerchief, under which lay the Darkstone that compelled her so. And a Lightstone which would soon lose its meaning. She supposed she would still have the Ring, even if she became a Shadowcaster. The Sage had warned her of the inevitable path to Darkness. But she had known the Light, for a time.

  The twisted circle of the Turning spell disturbed the air around her. The Shadowcasters were so close she could smell their stale body odour. She suspected that when their hands joined hers on the surface of the Source, the Turning would be done.

  Her reflection watched her, with deep eyes. The eyes of the Truthsayer, the eyes of the Seeker. She found a moment of clarity in her thoughts. She bore both orbs, but had spoken neither of the vows. She could be a Shadowcaster without betraying anyone, so long as she was not only a Shadowcaster. She leapt at the chance and accepted the Dark, took command of the motes that were binding her, let them slip from her body. The others were so intent on turning the Source that none of them noticed her release. Maybe they thought she had already been Turned. The twisted circle of motes and sprites closed on the Source, a hair’s-breadth from the surface.

  With the hold of the Dark released, she knew clarity. There was one path to freedom, one power the others could not fight. The Lifesong. There was time only for one note, that first note which had split the Sphere of the Universe, the note of beginnings, and endings. She knew her skill had grown since the Kingsbridge. There was no time for doubt.

  She sang the Shiver with all her heart.

  The Shadowcasters reached to the Source, their hands touched the crystal. Tabitha’s hands were already upon it. Her voice reached into it. She held only the Source in mind; there was nothing else. The Source, and the Shiver. The note found perfection, and Tabitha was drawn into a timeless moment where all that was, was song. Nothing was solid, there was nothing to contain the power which ran through her, a vibration which could undo everything, pull the universe apart, or set it aright.

  She opened herself to the power. She knew she was the channel, her mind formed the guiding banks of a torrent which was far greater than she would ever be. The Shiver flowed through her, and she was a part of the Lifesong. She heard a thousand voices, and yet sang with one. She heard a thousand stanzas, yet knew only the moment of the Shiver. She promised that some day, she would explore the knowledge that she could sense was hidden deeper in the music. It all happened in the space of a heartbeat, and then the Source shattered, in a storm of crystal boulders, shards, splinters and dust.

  Tabitha jumped away from the tumbling debris, but she tripped at the edge of the dais, and took the stairs in a fall. Her feet were still numb from the Dark. When she regained her bearings, she saw that many of the Shadowcasters lay amongst the debris. Many, but not all. She had only enough time to scrabble to her feet before the black-cloaked figure was upon her. The woman tripped her again, and had her boot upon Tabitha’s chest before she could take a breath.

  “You little bitch!” The woman kicked at her head, and did not miss. Tabitha was blinded with pain and dizziness.

  Voices. She could hear, but could see nothing.

  There was a splintering of wood.

  “The Swords!” shouted a man.

  “To the tunnel!” shouted another. “To the docks!”

  “Take her!” shouted the woman, close by.

  Tabitha was grabbed by a rough arm around her neck, and dragged a short way. She was dropped down a level onto her feet, but she collapsed in a heap against somebody’s legs. Heavy boots landed beside her, then a second, lighter pair.

  “What about the others?”

  “They failed!” replied the woman. “To hell with them!”

  There was a clamour of shouts, and running feet, but it became distant, as if sealed off behind a closing door. There was a grating of stone, then a click, and near silence, except for muffled murmurs and thumps from afar.

  “But they can’t open it. They have no Light, and we have the Dark.”

  “I don’t care! We run. I want this one to learn the torture room in Ravenscroft. I want her to regret living. Rat spawn! We have lost the Source! And now I must report that to the Master.”

  Something struck Tabitha’s head again. Then there truly was nothing to hear or see.

  39. WHISPERS OF WAR

  “Darkness to itself does draw,

  the kind that makes the darkness more.”—Zarost

  It was cold. The Darkmaster savoured the chill breeze which swirled through his Cavern. He liked to see the new subjects stamp and shiver. Their bodies still fought the cold, even though their hearts had long since been turned to his service. It would do them no good to resist, for their moment of trial had come and gone, and they were given to the Dark. Resistance only gave them pain. That was good as well, he supposed. Yes, let them learn of pain, in all its many flavours.

  The Cavern was fuller than it had ever been. Men of the Sword lined the walls, his Sword, the Darksword, all sworn to his service. Then there were the fallen Lightgifters, l
ike a flock of dirty sheep in the wolves lair. Their white robes were stained with the fine dust of Ravenscroft, but they were not yet turned fully to black. Unlike their Lightstones—that Turning had been all too easy. Yet now that their conquest was over, he despised them for their weakness. They had none of the toughness of his matured Shadowcasters, who numbered most in the Cavern.

  It was a strange time to summon them all—noon, from the middle of their sleep—but it was a momentous occasion, and it could not wait. They would hear the words of victory, and they would be bonded to him tighter than ever. The converts’ last hopes would be crushed. Once they heard the news that the Source of the Light had been turned, they would belong to the Dark completely. Their robes would be dyed to black, and they would be named Shadowcasters. For his loyal followers, the news would bring strength to their faith. It was to be the final boon before they marched to war.

  They had spent days preparing, strengthening the new heights of the dam in the Black River, gathering essence from every corner of Ravenscroft vale, rehearsing the strikes and counters. Years of planning, culminating in this day. His people were prepared. Now he would give them the confidence to march on Stormhaven, and take it.

  The raven croaked loudly. It was agitated by the long wait, eager to deliver its message and reach the culmination of its brief life. It flapped its wings where it stood, then cocked its head to the side to question the Darkmaster with a glassy eye. Still Cabal did not say the word. He watched the crowd, waited while the feet shifted and scraped on the floor, while those nervous of his gaze coughed or looked away.

  The moment came at last, when all was quiet in the chamber, and all eyes were on the Darkmaster.

  “Alight, Morrigán, and deliver your word.” The eager flurry of wings became an explosion of motes, and the words sounded loud in the silence. It was the voice of Gabrielle, as he knew it would be.

  “Master, the Light has been conquered.” Cabal smiled with victorious satisfaction. “But—the Source is shattered,” the voice continued, “the crystal was broken by a girl they call Tabitha. I don’t know what art she uses, but her voice is like a thunderbolt. Four of our seven are in the hands of the King’s Swords. I return with the girl. She shall sing a different tune in Ravenscroft.”

  Dead silence.

  Cabal’s rage swelled to the walls. No one drew a breath in the Cavern—it was as if there was suddenly no air at all. Cabal gripped his sceptre tighter, to hide the shaking of his hands. He roared, and sent a wind of motes shrieking across the crowd. The torches guttered, and Dark filled the hall. He wasn’t even aware of the spell he had cast until a woman’s scream came from somewhere amongst the crowd. The cracking of bone cut the second scream short. He abandoned the Breaking, and turned his attention to casting his own Morrigán.

  “Failure! You shall not return to Ravenscroft. You shall never return to Ravenscroft! Await our march on Stormhaven. If you secure that victory, you shall be allowed to live there.”

  He would kill her anyway. Her failure was unforgivable. If the Source was broken, there would be no new essence. It was terrible. His power would be limited to what he had amassed in Ravenscroft, and much of that would have to be used, in the storming of Stormhaven.

  He did not release the raven. There was more to his message.

  The girl! Becursed girl!

  He had to. She was the only piece that kept the Swordmaster in play. He needed the Swordmaster. At this stage in the game. Revenge could be taken, in time.

  “The girl—must be released. Let her find her way to Stormhaven. Do not fail me in that.”

  He hoisted the messenger. The Morrigán flapped over the stunned crowd, and left the Cavern, bound for the higher passages.

  He turned on his subjects. He didn’t think anyone had breathed yet.

  “It is time, we shall wait no longer! We have all the essence in Eyri, and all of it is Dark. We march tomorrow, at nightfall. We march to war.”

  The ancient word of power rippled through the crowd.

  “War!” he said again. The awe of the crowd was broken, and was replaced with the hunger he had instilled in them, a lust they touched whenever they slept, whenever they heard the Darkmaster’s whispering suggestions—the desire for domination and conquest. War.

  The Darkmaster strode from the Cavern to the sound of wild cheers, the beating of fists and stamping of feet. His people were hungry for victory. They had been hidden for too long.

  Losing the Source was enraging and unfortunate, but he would not allow it to change his plans to march on Stormhaven. The death-stroke was the Swordmaster, and he had already been placed at the heart of the realm. One more day, and Glavenor should have done what was needed to be done. Then it would be time for night to fall on Eyri. King Mellar didn’t know that he had already lost.

  “War!” he whispered, to himself. He slammed the sceptre into the rock. It gave him focus.

  One pathetic girl, and she defied him at every turn. For the last time, he vowed. The Swordmaster expected her to be left alone, and that would be what he would see. But there were things that were possible with a Darkstone that neither could anticipate.

  * * *

  A shoulder dug into Tabitha’s stomach, again and again in the incessant rhythm of walking. Blood pounded in her head. She was slung over a large man’s shoulder, and he walked down stairs, with little care to how she was jolted.

  The Shadowcasters!

  She knew they had taken her into the tunnel beneath the Dovecote, but she had no idea whether they were still in that, or in another secret way. If they were under Levin, they were a long way under, for the stairs were steeply angled, and disappeared into darkness at the limit of the flickering light someone carried. Tabitha was at the back of the group, and could see little apart from rough stone, and the boots of the man who carried her.

  His shoulder thumped into her again, hard enough to bruise. She cried out and discovered that she could make only a muffled moan through her tight gag. She struggled in the Shadowcaster’s grip, and learned that her hands were tied as well. The man halted.

  “So, it lives. I’ll be glad to get rid of your dead-weight,” he announced, tipping her from his shoulders onto her feet. He steadied her, then turned her to face down the stairway. “Walk,” he ordered, pushing her with a rough hand.

  It took all of her attention to avoid falling on the stairs. Without the use of her hands, there was nothing to help her balance. The steps were not altogether dry, for a stream rushed beside the walkway. It was damp and cold in this place. The torch, in the hand of one of the Shadowcasters ahead, cast only a dim light. She stumbled on. The two figures ahead of her didn’t turn, they walked with brisk urgency, and another rough push told her that she was expected to do the same. Thankfully the stairs became a sloping ramp, which was easier to negotiate, but the Shadowcasters increased the pace, until she was heaving breaths through the stifling fabric in her mouth.

  She thought of removing the gag only once. A vicious rap on her knuckles from behind convinced her otherwise.

  After a time, the tunnel began to grow lighter. Tabitha caught a murmur of activity above the rush of the stream, though it was so muted as to be unrecognisable. They rounded a bend in the tunnel, and came upon a chamber filled with a grey-green light. The stream became a pool, and it was from within the depths that the light came. The walkway came to an end against a sheer wall.

  The torch-bearer doused the brand, and dropped it on a pile of similar faggots. He climbed the wall. Tabitha noticed the iron rungs for the first time. The woman took the iron rungs next.

  “Up!” commanded a gruff voice behind her. The rope which bound her wrists was untied roughly. Her fingertips stung with the sudden return of blood. She didn’t have long to relish the sensation.

  At the top of the ladder there was a landing, just wide enough for all four of them. A rusted iron door sealed an exit. When one of the Shadowcasters rapped on it, it issued a hollow note, like a dead gong.

>   A strong hand gripped her neck from behind. Soft fabric was pulled over her head, and everything went dark. It smelled of damp leaves inside the bag. Then her wrists were bound again.

  “Who is it?” came a muffled voice.

  “Gabrielle.”

  A bolt was shot with a squeal. The door groaned away.

  “Your captive. Can she hear?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t worry, she won’t be coming back from Ravenscroft.”

  The doorman muttered something, but Tabitha suspected it was supposed to be unintelligible, even to the Shadowcasters.

  “The tariff,” stated the doorman.

  A faint rustling of hands.

  “We need a boat, and some cloaks to hide these,” Gabrielle said. “We must travel in daylight.”

  “More jurrum. Another ten leaves.”

  “Eight.”

  The whisper of hands again, then a grunt, and they began to move. Someone kept a hand on her shoulder, and steered her by twisting the joint. There were many doors—she heard them closing softly behind them. They walked upon thick carpets, then wood, and finally down some stairs to bare stone. The smell of fish crept through the fabric of her hood, and the shouts of men at work. They walked along a level area, and water lapped nearby. There was a flurry of wings, and a croaking cry she recognised as a raven. Her guide paused, and the woman spoke.

  “Alight, messenger, and deliver your word.”

  The Morrigán released a voice as dry and scaly as a dead snake, yet for all its emptiness, there was fury in the words as well.

  “Failure! You shall not return to Ravenscroft. You shall never return to Ravenscroft! Await our march on Stormhaven. If you secure that victory, you shall be allowed to live there.”

  The only sound was the lapping of water against the pier.

  “The girl—must be released. Let her find her way to Stormhaven. Do not fail me in that.”

  A curdled scream and a fast step was all the warning she got. A hard, blinding slap left Tabitha’s left ear ringing. She fell to her side, but she was dragged to her feet again, then slapped the other way. She fell against a wall.