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

by Greg Hamerton

  “I got away,” she said. “They’ll not catch me again.”

  He prayed that was true. Everything was worth it, if he could believe that she would be safe. “Be careful,” he said. “The Dark is unscrupulous. Be very, very careful.”

  “I will be,” she said, and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Her lips left a tingling warmth on his skin, the only warmth he had felt for days.

  “They march, and the head of the Kingsbridge will be their target.” Garyll released Tabitha. He bent in a brief bow. “Forgive me, I cannot stay. I must prepare the defences.”

  His eyes lingered on Tabitha for a long moment, then he stepped close and kissed her on the cheek. He hoped that felt even a fraction as warming as her kiss had.

  He regretted having done so almost at once. He had no right to her heart. He should be gone from her.

  * * *

  “He was in a hurry to leave,” Sister Grace commented, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “He’s got a battle looming,” Tabitha offered in his defence.

  Sister Grace was silent for a while. “There is something ailing that man, Tabitha, something more than weariness of body. You should go to him tonight, he needs you more than he will say.”

  It took Tabitha a while to react to the inflection in Grace’s comment. “Go to him? You mean in his rooms?”

  “Do you love him?” Grace asked.

  “Of course I do. I love him, deeply.”

  “Heed my words then. I have healed many men with the Light, and seen also those men who could not be healed. I know of only one hope for those with doom in their eyes. Love has powers we can only guess at.”

  “But you can’t give your love to a man as a healing!” Tabitha objected. “As if it were a potent brew or soothing balm.” It was her mother speaking now, she knew. She had been raised on conservative values. It was wrong to be with a man before the marriage bed.

  Darkness surged through her blood, and roared suggestions in her ears. She fought the wild fantasies. It’s just the Darkstone. Not my thoughts. Something the Dark is doing to me. The more she fought to ignore them, the more the dark fantasies filled her mind.

  “You will lose that man to despair, and only physical love will bring you close enough to change his world now,” Grace warned. “You saw how he pushed you away. He has endured more than he tells.”

  “How can you give such advice as a Lightgifter?”

  “I do not speak as a Lightgifter now. There is much I have learned in the last few days, lessons I should have learned years before. Goodness is not something you learn, or attain by dispensing Light, it is something you feel. If you do something with goodness in your heart, then it is good. All our codes, rules, and restrictions of the Dovecote, all were used to control us, to act in ways to help the Dark, though most of us were unaware. Shamgar hid behind the shield of holiness for years. Yet his every action was with a bad heart, for his own gain, for riches through treachery. He has tainted everything the Dovecote did, and because of our Vow to him, we did not see it. Because we believed the rule. So don’t think of what is right and what is wrong, according to the rules. Think of what is good, in your heart. There is only that.”

  Her grey eyes were penetrating. “Isn’t Garyll Glavenor the most important man in the world to you?”

  Tabitha bit down on her lip, and nodded. His abrupt visit had only served to re-awaken her longing for him. She had feared him lost. How could he leave her again, after announcing his return? She ached to be close to him. He had tried to shield her from the depth of his pain; she knew that some of his answers hadn’t been entirely truthful. He hadn’t even let her see to his wound.

  Sister Grace called to her, in a fading voice. “Love should not be denied. Close your heart, and you have dark. Open, and there is light. The longer a man’s heart has to grow hard, the darker it will become inside. I am sorry, I have said too much. I must rest.”

  Sister Grace lay back on the bed. She was almost as pale as the sheets. Her ordeal at the Dovecote had left her weaker than a babe. Her throat was still an angry purple from where the Shadowcaster had strangled her. But her advice had been filled with strength and truth.

  Go to him tonight. Tabitha’s pulse raced. It was an outrageous suggestion, full of risk, full of excitement. There was one question she couldn’t leave unasked.

  “How would this be any different from a Shadowcaster seducing one of the weak to their way?”

  A ghost of a smile touched Sister Grace’s lips. “You’re a woman. You’ll be able to tell the difference between sex and love, and it’s love I’m talking about. Sex would drive him further into despair in the morning.”

  “What’s being a woman got to do with it?” Ashley interjected, with an impish grin. He took a seat on the bed beside Grace, and set a gentle hand on her forehead. “We can be sensitive, too.”

  “Men have more difficulty discerning the difference,” said Sister Grace, reaching up, and tweaking his ear.

  “You wouldn’t do too badly though,” she added.

  Ashley turned the colour of a fresh rose.

  “For a man,” Grace finished, shooting a knowing glance to Tabitha. Tabitha nearly managed to stifle the giggle.

  A heady rush of romantic visions coursed through her veins.

  * * *

  The Swordhouse was filled with an air of tense expectancy, like dry grass awaiting the flame. News of his return had run ahead of Garyll, and there he was watched, wherever he walked. When he returned their attention they saluted hastily. He strode on, cloaked in his anger.

  Let them fear me now, and they will not dare to ask.

  None of them had been to Ravenscroft, none of them knew what was possible with the Darkstone. All he had to do was to be the Swordmaster they had always seen. But it was not an easy act, for honesty and treachery warred within his heart like two dogs with a scrap of meat between them. The burden from Ravenscroft grew heavier with every step that he had taken away from it. Every Sword that he passed, he saw as a man whom he had betrayed. Every citizen of Stormhaven, every woman and child, even his King. All betrayed, to save the life of one.

  It isn’t fair, it isn’t just. She should be sacrificed.

  Every time he came upon that thought, the cold crawled through his chest, and gripped his heart. The smell of the torture room came sharply to his nostrils, the sound of the screams never-ending filled his ears. If he gave Tabitha to that nightmare, he knew he would fall upon his own sword. She was the only thread that kept him from the abyss. Everything else had been picked clean from his soul by the ravens. Everything else had been committed to the Dark. There was no going back. Only, forward.

  His voice was harsh even to his own ears when he ordered a young Sword away from the upper corridors.

  “Assemble all of the men. I shall address them in half an hour.”

  His quarters were as he had left them, as severe and spotless as ever. He pulled the bath tub out from the corner. He stripped, and laid each item of armour in a row upon the floor. There was water in the pail beside the tub. He began with his body, scrubbing with brush and soap until his skin was pink and raw, and his rank smell was gone. He knew he could never clean the memory of it from inside his head. His ruined hand he kept bandaged. It would have to wait. The pain within it was a monotonous roar.

  He polished the breastplate until it gleamed again. The shoulder-pieces were bent, and he beat them into shape as well he could with the hilt of Felltang. The helm rolled away when he tried to clean it, so he gripped it between his knees, and rubbed until even the nosepiece shone. He set the light-mail hauberk into the sand barrel, and rolled it with his foot. It made a rhythmic grinding sound as it moved around on the floor. Some of the blood which had rusted the fine iron rings was removed.

  He dressed with precision. Clean garments beneath the padded tunic, high black boots with steel tips and calf-ribs, designed for close-quarter fighting, not for riding. The armour he had cleaned was awkward to don wi
th one hand, but he would not call for the assistance of a junior Sword to act as squire. The sling he tied tighter than before, hiding the damning Darkstone beneath the lump of white fabric which bound his left hand.

  Finally he drew the ceremonial blue Swordmaster’s cloak from a chest, and set it about his shoulders. The less he was Swordmaster on the inside, the more he must appear it, on the outside. He was ready.

  The men were restless when he arrived in the training hall, but they soon grew as still as mice in the presence of a cat. Many had just returned, after being recalled from Fendwarrow. He had passed them there, and commended their strategy of blocking the base of the Black River pass. He would have to explain to them why he had countermanded the King’s strategy of retreat. It was not a good precedent. He had to command the Sword, as was his right as Swordmaster. The men should look to no other for guidance.

  “Swords of Eyri!” he greeted the three hundred men, one and all. He saluted with his right fist across his chest. Most of the Swords returned the salute immediately, a greeting of the dedicated soldier to his commander, unquestioning.

  A few hesitated before the salute. It was barely noticeable, just a fraction of delay, but Garyll marked their faces. They would form the front-line, the furthest from Stormhaven. He could not afford to have those close to him uncertain of his command.

  “We face an enemy who is both treacherous and deadly. You know that of the double-squadron I took to Ravenscroft, no one but I returned. The men went down fighting, and let it never be said that they were not the best of the Sword. That is a measure of our adversary. The Lightgifters stood not a chance—I saw them tortured, or killed. We have one chance against this foe, one place we know they shall have to pass. The head of the Kingsbridge is where we shall fight. We have at most a day to prepare our battle ground.”

  A Captain raised his fist, indicating his desire to question—Vance, a soldier with less sense than he thought he had, and with a weedy moustache to prove it. Only the Captains had the right to question the Swordmaster, and Garyll intended them to have a limited use of that privilege. He gave Vance a stern look, to let him know as much. Garyll’s accepting nod was curt.

  “Swordmaster, we heard that the Shadowcasters have a way of turning some to serve their purpose. How will we know if a man is turned against us?” A hush fell upon the Swords. The question was a double-edged blade. He marked Captain Vance as one of the front-line as well. There was an intense eagerness for the answer in Vance’s eye, an eagerness reflected in those men who had hesitated in their earlier salute.

  “You shall see them raising their blades against you, Captain. Only where the Darkmaster finds a weakness, can he work his evil.”

  Garyll bored into the Captain with the glare of a hawk. The silent battle of wills lasted only a moment. Vance averted his gaze, and looked all the more uncomfortable about it when he realised that he had.

  Leather creaked, and someone in the ranks coughed, quietly. No one else dared to suggest Garyll Glavenor might have a weakness. It was unthinkable. Garyll intended to show them just how unthinkable it was.

  He selected his special group of Swords, and set them apart in the hall.

  “This is the front line, the first squadron to guard the head of the bridge,” Garyll announced, “and they shall be unarmed. Let it be a test of their strength of character that they are not turned.”

  “But unarmed, Swordmaster!” exclaimed Vance, at the head of the group. “How can we defend the Kingsbridge, how can we defend ourselves, without our swords?”

  “Do you mean to tell me, Captain, that you do not have the skill to take down an unarmed adversary? The Shadowcasters bear no weapons. Or is it that you lack the courage you were chosen for?”

  “No, Swordmaster.” Vance looked distraught. “But they have magic. What are we to do against that?”

  “And how do you think your sword is going to defend you against magic?”

  Vance opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish, and finally found a question to save himself with. “What about the Morgloth?”

  “Every man shall be equipped with the whistle we devised. It is protection against the Morgloth, and it shall repel them. That is all the front line need do—repel the Morgloth, and break the Shadowcasters advance with their fists.”

  Mutters broke out all through the crowd, but Garyll took no special heed of it. It was to be expected that a Sword would be uncomfortable with the idea of setting his namesake aside, in the face of a deadly foe.

  “Silence.” Garyll said it quietly, but the effect was immediate. “I have been to their lair, I know how these Shadowcasters work their ways. There is reason to my commands. You are not gathered here to think, you are gathered to act, in defence of Eyri. I will not see the second and third squadron fall under the blades of the first, if the front line is turned to the Dark. We will break their assault with the fist, or you men shall bring little back against the loyal Swords remaining.”

  The faces amongst the hand-picked squadron were pale. Garyll ploughed on, before any questions could brew to the surface of Captain Vance’s small mind.

  “The blades will be in the second wave. Their task is to take the Morgloth down, and the Morgloth shall concentrate there when they hear that none in the second wave bear the whistles. Archers shall be in the third wave, and shall be kept to take down the Shadowcasters who escape the front line. Any man who ceases to move toward the front shall be taken by arrow as well, for that means you have been turned by the Darkmaster, and we cannot have such traitors in our midst. If you know the men at your back have drawn bows, you will fight harder away from Stormhaven, than toward it.

  “There can be no retreat. I will not risk a siege of Stormhaven, for the Morgloth will devastate the city.” His eyes roamed the hall, challenging every man present. There was surprise, and fear, but no defiance. Some merely nodded, with the grim acceptance of their Swordmaster’s superior judgement. Their loyalty was hard to bear.

  “The Shadowcasters shall attack tomorrow night, and try to gain the head of the Kingsbridge. We must build a barricade to prevent their access there, which the archers shall hold during our battle.” Garyll swept his hand across the right third of the ranks. “Tonight, you shall row to Southwind to collect timber.” He indicated the left third of the assembled Swords. “You shall begin the preparations, collecting the ropes, pitch, tools and supplies we shall need. Those remaining, shall form the rear-guard. Your task for now is to prepare the citizens of Stormhaven for the war, and to allocate strongholds as defence against the Morgloth.”

  All that remained was the order for Captain Vance’s squadron. Garyll turned toward the cluster of men.

  “You brave Swords of the front line had best be ready to march within the hour. I want you stationed at the head of the Kingsbridge tonight, in case I have underestimated the speed of the Shadowcasters approach. Keep signal fires burning. If they cease to burn, I shall bring what men I can to your aid at once.”

  Captain Vance clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It would be better to keep all the men inside the walls of Stormhaven. No force could breach the City Gates, and we could endure a siege for months.”

  Garyll would have been angered by his defiance even without the effect of the Darkstone. As it was, his blood seethed with a rage he could barely contain.

  “Do you challenge my command as Swordmaster? I would be glad to accept you now, for the testing.”

  Garyll waited long enough for beads of sweat to form on the man’s brow. Vance knew he had not the skill to win Felltang from Glavenor, let alone survive the testing before it.

  “You only bring attention to your weakness of mind, Captain. You would leave the entire realm of Eyri open to whatever designs the Darkmaster wished to exercise, while our strength is trapped here in the city, while we are besieged for months? No! I will have no further dissent. We are at war, and I am the Swordmaster. The time for questions is over. Dismissed, Swords! Strength to your hear
ts!” He punched the air, and brought his fist to his chest in the Sword’s salute.

  “Strength to your heart,” they repeated, as one, returning his salute. They couldn’t know how much he needed it.

  41. THE WINDING OF PASSION

  “In darkness, the line of virtue

  becomes a smudgéd thing.”—Zarost

  Cabal took a last look around his private chamber. He wouldn’t miss it. The raised bed with the four stone posts, the floor covered with obsidian chips, the lounge pit with the deep hearth of coals in the centre—all seemed unusually plain and poorly. Nothing short of the throne would do. Nothing short of the royal rooms in the palace would replace his chambers. Conquered noblemen would serve him on their knees, and noblewomen would be his for the taking. No, he wouldn’t miss Ravenscroft at all.

  “Out! Out!” he shouted. The apprentice slipped from the deeper shadows, and walked straight to Cabal. He was brave, this one.

  “Is it time, Master?”

  Cabal ran a hand over the boy’s fiery red hair.

  “Yes, we shall both pay a visit to the old King. Now go!”

  The apprentice skipped out of the door. Conquered noblemen indeed. Though he was only a boy, he had all the signs of arrogance and ruthlessness of the royal line, and a natural hunger for power. He had learned fast, at the Darkmaster’s side.

  It was only an hour short of sunset, and the Keep bustled like an ant-heap before the storm. One hour, and the great march would begin. They would be close to Fendwarrow by dawn, where the caves would hide them through the day, before the final assault on Stormhaven. He wet his lips.

  All was well, except for the persistent problem of the girl. A night of dream-weaving should have claimed her, even from such a distance, but no matter how he had bent his will, no matter how he had called to her Darkstone, all through the night, she had not spoken the Devotion. It seemed that she had lost her fear of being a Shadowcaster, and without the fear, she was not as pliable as he had anticipated.