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

by Greg Hamerton

  Tabitha Serannon was the one element he could not afford to have loose on the eve of his victory. She must be turned, or killed. Yet he couldn’t risk the consequences of her death, not yet. He would lose his hold on the Swordmaster.

  And so the solution presented itself.

  If Glavenor could be made to couple with the girl, she would be easy to turn. The Devotion spell spread like an infection between Darkstones. That was why female initiates were brought to the Darkmaster’s bed on their first night—when they left, they were so devoted they would do anything, if they thought it would please him. The Dark spread like a bloodstain, and no act could spread it quicker than a good rut.

  Cabal chuckled. Their own love would be used against them. He cursed himself for not having seen the solution sooner. Glavenor had drawn strength from her name. She must care for him. It was poetic. The one woman who Glavenor had wanted to save, he would help to turn, and he wouldn’t even know he was responsible for it. He would think her safe, in Stormhaven, at his side.

  Cabal summoned motes to his hand while his shoulders shook with mirth. He spun the Seduction spell, but did not release it. Using a modified form of the Morrigán pattern, he created a messenger more suited to the task at hand, then linked the Seduction spell to its tiny body.

  “First, to Glavenor. Then to Tabitha Serannon,” he whispered.

  The words were not needed, but they always helped to focus the mind on the target intended for the spell. The messenger would have no trouble finding them—both wore Darkstones.

  The black mosquito whined away.

  Blood could be relied upon to create a most compelling bond.

  * * *

  Tabitha sat at her window in the Boarding. There were lights burning in many windows, but no one in the street. Doubtless the taverns were doing a good trade tonight, with all the fearsome news of war.

  Her thoughts were of Garyll. She had had some time to cool off since her discussion with Sister Grace. She wasn’t so sure it was a good idea to visit the Swordmaster. She knew the wisdom of what Grace had suggested, but she couldn’t pluck up the courage to go. In truth, she was terrified. What if he rejected her, or worse, was angered by her wilfulness?

  It would drive him further away, and as it was, the distance between them was tearing her heart. He hadn’t called for her. Since his abrupt departure, he had given no sign that he wanted to see her at all.

  A high-pitched whine passed close to her ear. It would be better to have the window closed, and keep the night pests out. Even as she hauled the sash down, she felt the bite on her arm. A small black mosquito, its proboscis deep in her skin. She slapped, and caught it before it could fly away.

  “Hah! Sucker!”

  There was a large smear of blood where the mosquito had been; a lot of blood for such a brief visit. Maybe it had fed on someone else before her. There was no sign of the squashed critter.

  She walked to the washroom, to clean her arm. A curious sensation ran along the inside of her thighs. She reached the basins, but had to steady herself on the wall, as a shiver thrilled up her spine. With it, came the vision of Garyll Glavenor, alone in his quarters, sharpening his sword, preparing for war. He needed her, he wanted her, and their union would be glorious.

  She drew a shuddering breath. She would consume all his hurt in the fire of their loving. It might be their last night together. She had been wrong to be afraid. She could feel his need for her, and her desire for him. She ran from the washroom. She had to get ready.

  No matter how many times she brushed her hair, tangles remained. She despaired of the unruly brown curls. Then there were her trousers. No amount of pressing and smoothing could hide the fact that they were plain, and made for a woodsman, not a young woman. It would not do.

  She had underclothes, but there was need to cover herself more modestly than that. One did not go to a loved man in a grubby ghost’s robe either, she was sure. Borrowing? The only woman she knew well enough in Stormhaven was Maybelle Westerbrook, and she laughed out loud when she contemplated how alluring she would look in a dress borrowed from the stout Lady of Ceremony. May would disapprove, at any rate, and she couldn’t risk her finding out. Through all these thoughts, was the pounding excitement of anticipation.

  She counted out her small reserve of coins. After the theft in the Dovecote, she had been left with one gold, and little else. The gold had long since been broken into its exchange of thirteen silvers, and less than half remained. When she had carried the full weight of her inheritance of coins, she had been scared of not using the wealth wisely. Now she owned a fraction, and the need for wisdom was even more pressing.

  She knew she didn’t need new clothes. She wanted new clothes. But in a few days it might not matter at all what she had done with her wealth. Considering the man, the extravagance would be worth it.

  Garyll.

  Just the whisper of his name decided the matter. She hastened to the cutters shop in the merchants quarter.

  * * *

  The front door was closed when she reached it, but when she called out to the windows above the street, a sharp-eyed woman poked her head above the sill almost at once.

  “We’re closed, luvvy. What’re you looking for?”

  “A good-looking dress, ma’am.”

  “Humph! If I open, you understand there’ll be a premium on my prices, for being so late and all.”

  Tabitha nodded. She suspected the dress-maker would squeeze her purse for all it was worth, but her need was greater than her reason, and she knew it. She hoped the dress-maker didn’t recognise the flush of excitement in her cheeks, at that distance.

  Five silvers, I’ll not spend more than five.

  The upstairs window closed, and soon enough, the front door was pulled just wide enough for Tabitha to slip in. The dressmaker was a little woman, too broad to be called shapely, yet dressed in a sheer, green gown whose fine tailoring created the impression that she was both tall and elegant. She closed and bolted the door behind Tabitha.

  “Can’t be too careful now, what with the talk of war coming. Why, the Swords came through earlier, warning us to keep the windows and doors barred against Morgloth. There’ve been all sorts of girls in here, buying dresses, hoping to make a catch in the last hour before our doom. Silly people, there’s not been a war in Eyri for five hundred years. It’s all rumours, spread by those unwholesome folk from Fendwarrow, and not a few of the Swords are involved in that, I’m sure.”

  She winked knowingly, then, perhaps realising she might be talking her customer out of buying a dress rather than fattening her own purse, changed her direction in mid-stride. “But what do I know of wars? We may all be fighting the Shadowcasters in the streets come Saturday. I always say you’ve got to take your opportunities while they are there. I know just the kind of dress you’ll be wanting. Just the thing.” She waved Tabitha into a dim interior, full of soft fabrics and fine garments.

  The dress-maker fitted Tabitha into the most shapely, expensive and revealing velvet dress of deep red she had ever seen. When she was guided to stand before the candle-lit mirror, Tabitha gasped, and caught the dressmaker’s knowing smile in the corner of the mirror. She looked ravishing, even without the added effect of the strategic lighting and subtle hint of soft incense.

  “Hhh—how much is it?” Tabitha asked, her voice unsteady.

  “Eight silvers, and fifteen,” the dressmaker replied. “You deserve to wear something like this, you look beautiful in it.”

  “Really?” Tabitha asked, feeling both thrilled, and tearful. “Oh but I can’t afford that! I haven’t got near enough.”

  The dressmaker came closer, and held a brazier of candles to the side, an angle which served to outline Tabitha’s breasts with deep shadows, and caress her legs to a golden brown. There was a good portion of leg, before the firm line of the hem.

  “How much do you have?”

  “Five silvers, maybe twenty blackmetals.”

  The candles flickere
d and burned. The incense trailed delicately through the air. The dressmaker was close, her voice soothing.

  “Do you have any special skills, apart from Gifting?”

  Tabitha nodded, staring at her reflection. “I can sing. I was a tavern-singer in First Light. Yzell the instrument-maker said I could sing with him, should I need to.”

  The dress-maker seemed delighted. “Such work would earn you a good wage. I can see you really want it, and the dress was made for you. It would be a shame to see it on any other woman, for she would never be as alluring. I will let you pay it off as you earn the coin, though it will cost you ten silvers that way.”

  Ten! It would take her weeks of work to make up the shortfall. Maybe there was hope to get the stolen money returned, now that Garyll was back. Maybe money wouldn’t matter at all, when the Dark fell upon Stormhaven. She gazed at her reflection.

  “Come, let us remove this scrap of a scarf,” said the dressmaker, “and see how you look in your new dress.”

  “No!” Tabitha’s hand shot to her throat, restraining the dressmaker’s pull on the loosed knot.

  “Forgive me, my beauty, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It is a nice enough scarf. A fine scarf.”

  Tabitha’s looked forlornly at her reflection. Now that the offending neckerchief had been identified, it stood out like mud on a jewelled necklace. Yet without it, her Darkstone would be revealed beside the Lightstone, for all to see.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a more slender scarf, in red, perhaps?”

  The dressmaker smiled. She had just the thing. It was expensive, though.

  * * *

  Only in the privacy of her bedroom in the Boarding did she undo the offensive neckerchief. The Darkstone fell free of its restraint, and pressed cold against her throat. The Lightstone looked out of place beside it, so she slid the white orb around to the back of her neck, and tucked it underneath her hair.

  The dress had lost none of its appeal. Even the inside of the velvet fabric was soft, touching her skin with sensuous weave. It made her want to run her hands down her body, to feel the smoothness of the contours. The Darkstone added its own allure to her reflection, its hard, cold surface only made her realise how soft and warm she was.

  She stroked the Darkstone absently. It whispered to her, in an intimate, companionable way—a far cry from the relentless pestering of the night before. Maybe the Darkmaster had finally realised she was not going to take the Devotion, no matter what he did.

  She hid the Darkstone beneath the red silk scarf.

  “Goodnight, Matron,” she called through the open door, pretending to turn in for the night.

  A voice answered from some distance within the Boarding.

  She blew out the single candle. She descended the stairs in silence, and slipped through the shadows to the front door and the street beyond. A heady urgency thudded through her veins.

  The cold night air was welcome, touching her in delicate caress.

  Garyll Glavenor had quarters high in the Swordhouse. The various Swords who directed her there were extremely reluctant, but Tabitha’s insistence that Garyll had invited her made them unsure. Her dress was effective. Even the most dour of the escorts feigned a faltered step to gain a better view along the way.

  At last she was shown to a solid oak door at the end of a top-floor passage. “He’ll be none too happy if you have no appointment,” the escort warned. “I’ll not be around to receive his displeasure—you just come on down to the front door, you know the way.”

  With those words, the Sword left her, as fast as he could.

  She straightened her dress and hair, and raised her hand to knock on the door. She hesitated, then she rapped once on the hard wood.

  There was no answer for a long time, and she was about to knock again, when the door was wrenched open, sucking the air from the corridor past her legs. She stood frozen before him.

  Garyll was still dressed in armour. His breastplate reflected the light of the hall-brand. His helm shone from under his arm. Even his high black boots gleamed.

  Tabitha’s alluring dress offered her no defence. Garyll bristled with hard steel. He was bigger than she remembered him, the set of his jaw harder. The only softness about him was the sling, which held his left arm against his chest.

  He said nothing, but at last he stepped back to allow her in, and closed the door behind her. The room was simply furnished. A fire burned in the hearth. Garyll’s sword, Felltang, lay upon the near edge of the hearth, the blade red-hot for half its length.

  “I didn’t think you were allowed from the Boarding so late,” he said. He would not meet her eye, he preferred a point somewhere above her head.

  “Nobody knows I’m gone,” she answered, regaining a little of her boldness. Her legs had steadied, at least, but she still felt small. “I can leave if you don’t wish me to stay.”

  “No!” Garyll’s eyes found hers. There was depth of pain to them. For just an instant, she saw the man beneath the steel.

  “You may stay, if you wish,” he said.

  He motioned her toward the wide couch, but he chose the hard-backed chair opposite her for himself. Fear and doubt thudded in Tabitha’s chest again. She couldn’t force herself on him, she had to seduce him.

  She didn’t know where to start—most of her nights in the Tooth-and-Tale had been spent learning how to fend men off, not to entice them. There followed a most awkward silence, while Tabitha blushed furiously. Garyll watched the flames flickering in the hearth, and the slowly cooling blade.

  Tabitha tried to cross her legs in such a way that didn’t reveal so much of her thighs, but the slinky dress had a way of creeping upwards. There was nothing to say, every topic she could think of seemed lame and girlish before Garyll’s blunt silence. Finally she could bear it no longer.

  “So how goes the preparation for the battle?”

  He answered her quickly, as if he too had been waiting to escape the impasse. “As well as can be expected for such short notice. Some of the timber has already returned from Southwind, and is being iron-bound at the forge. We shall have a firm barricade to protect the Kingsbridge tomorrow. The Swords shall be well-placed for the battle which is to come.”

  Tabitha smiled. She did not really want to talk of the war, but it was good to hear his deep, resonant voice. She didn’t care what he said, so long as he talked to her, kept his eyes on her, and not on the blade beside the fire. She was grateful that he spoke before the silence could be repeated.

  “How goes the recovery of the Lightgifters?”

  “Sister Grace will find her strength, in time. There is little we can do, without Light essence. The sprites that answer our summoning calls are fewer every time. Soon we won’t even be able to raise a Courier with what meagre Light there is.”

  “Why do you hide your Gifter’s orb now?” His eyes were on the red silk at her throat. She cringed, and tried to control her panic. He took the bulge in her scarf to be the Lightstone. With the way she had dressed, the Gifter’s orb was hiding under her hair. The stone at her throat was one he must not see.

  “I—wish to keep it hidden.” Tabitha’s mind spun. It would be the end of her chances, if he saw the Darkstone. He would reject her, as would everyone. She would be branded a Shadowcaster, regardless of what she said in her defence.

  “I am scared to be a target for any traitors who find their way into Stormhaven.”

  “And what kind of traitors would those be?”

  “Ones who serve the Dark,” she answered, without thinking.

  “The ones who bear the other kind of orb?” he asked rhetorically.

  She nodded, aghast at what she had actually said. He must never find out.

  “I see.” He braced himself on his chair, as if accepting a great burden. He stood, abruptly. “Forgive me, Tabitha. I have many duties tonight, with the approach of the Dark. I forgot myself for a while. Please excuse me.”

  She wished he would take off his armour. The loneliness
in his eyes had deepened. Her need for him pulsed through her veins. She couldn’t let him banish her from his rooms, not now, not when he was so close. When he offered her his hand, to lift her from her seat, she took his fingers to her lips instead.

  He froze, but he did not pull away.

  “Why do you live so alone?” she asked. She kissed his palm.

  He jerked his hand away. “I have never found reason not to be –”

  It was a slap across the face for Tabitha. She had been too daring. She could feel the tears rising to her eyes.

  “- until you,” he whispered, as if not meaning to admit it.

  The world turned around that moment.

  He stepped close, and lifted her from the chair, his powerful arm around her. He hugged her close, lifting his sling over her shoulder to do so. His breastplate was cold against her cheek, but Tabitha didn’t care. It felt so good to be held. He kissed her forehead, then spoke over her head, to the room behind her.

  “I wish I could love you as I should.”

  “Why can you not love me?”

  He pulled away, just enough for her to watch his lips when he spoke.

  “I am a cold stone in the shadows, you are the flower in the sunlight. There is no place in your world of beauty for one as harsh as me.”

  The fire’s glow played over his strong jaw. His eyes were dark. He smelled of clean strength. He smelled like a man.

  “What if I say there is place, what if I want you in my world?”

  She could get nearer to him if she stood astride his leg. She moved in close. She wasn’t sure if it was his body, or hers, that was quivering.

  “I am a rough man,” said Garyll, a catch in his voice, “I know only the life of the Sword. I can offer nothing to you.”

  “Maybe I want to give you something, and not take something from you.”

  “I have many burdens. There are things I don’t wish to expose you to.”

  “Would you share them with a lover?”

  Some of the earlier discipline returned to his features.