The air was like soup in his lungs. Gravity pressed on him like a rolling mountain. This was far worse than the pressure of the Shield, far worse than he’d expected. Zarost held onto his awareness only—his body was going to take horrendous damage, but he could use the Restitution spell when this was all over, so long as he maintained his sanity. His chest and arms exploded with pain. He held onto the corner of the torn Gap, and fired like an arrow into the maelstrom.
Zarost passed through water and ice, and through rock and fire. Time slowed the deeper he went, and he seemed to have hours to contemplate his pain and misery. And when he believed that he had truly misjudged the spell of the Writhe, when he believed they were all going to die, he entered at last a clear place, right in the heart of the destruction, like a secret chamber of peace, and as he did, so the others emerged too, including the unconscious Mystery and Mentalist, their bodies all as devastated as his, but most of their hands still holding the ends of the black tear in space. The Writhe had drawn them together through all of its detritus, and the Nothingness between them had closed, almost to a point.
Ahead of them, in the clear place, the fundamental of the Writhe turned. A small circle of silver, like a polished steel ring, too small to fit upon a child’s finger, yet its density was immense, it had gathered so much matter around it and into itself. This was the pattern that drove the monster.
They rushed together, drawn by its gravity to become pulverised.
But their fingers had not touched when they passed the silver band, something of Nothing remained. In the fraction of an instant that the black emptiness between them was drawn over the pattern of the Writhe, Zarost saw how the silvered essence lost its rhythm, then scattered like a puff of dust. The tons and tons of matter orbiting the dead heart would fall to the ground now, and crush them all.
Then their fingers touched, all eight at once, and they Transferred.
They lingered in the crossing-point of infinity, amidst the stars. Zarost wasn’t sure how long it would take them to recover. Even with their Restitution spells, to undo what they had endured would take much pain and patience. But he was certain of one thing.
They had conquered the spell of Ametheus.
They had killed the Writhe.
As he prepared for his time of great silence and rest, his thoughts lingered at last on Eyri. He was glad he had motivated the Gyre to save Eyri and so grant Tabitha the gift of life again. She was a rare kind of wizard, the kind liable to surprise them all. She would draw more upon herself, while the Gyre recovered, for she had a volatile combination of one cup of knowledge with five cups talent. Whatever she drew now, she would have to face herself. The Gyre would be still for a while.
“Use your gift well, Tabitha Serannon,” he whispered through the stars. “Use your gift well.”
* * *
“Garyll?”
Tabitha dared not take another step closer. He was so still, so alone, kneeling in the midst of the carnage on the forecourt, his back to her. The slain Morgloth lay where they had fallen, but the people had been borne away, all except Garyll. He was wounded, yet he had done nothing to seal the deep gash in his leg, or to tend the flesh where his armour had been torn open against his ribs, or to remove the dented helm from his head. He turned his wickedly bladed gauntlet slowly before his face, as if lost in the contemplation of what it was, what it was made for, what it had done. The gold of the late afternoon sun flickered over the dirty metal talons. He did not react to her voice, but he seemed to come to some resolution in his own time, for he laid the blades against the side of his neck, and hunched his shoulders, drawing a deep breath.
“Garyll?”
He became as still as stone. She stepped closer, fearing to intrude into the tension of his reverie, fearing what might happen if she didn’t. His blades quivered.
She laced her fingers between the blades, touched his neck. She kept the touch as she walked around him, and knelt on the stone before him. His eyes danced over her, touching everywhere but upon her gaze. Then they jerked away.
“You are a vision, created by my hope. Leave me! I must find my death.”
The desperation in his voice was almost worse than the words he had spoken.
“I am real. Feel me!” She gripped his rough hand in hers, drew it to her face. He did not help, but he did not resist. “Am I not warm?” she asked.
His gaze flicked to his hand on her chin, then his attention crept slowly upwards. The depth of anguish in Garyll’s eyes was the worst of all.
“Tabitha?”
“Oh, Garyll!” She threw her arms around him. The dented breastplate was cold between them, but Tabitha just hugged him tighter.
“How is it that you live?” he asked, to the air behind her shoulder. “I saw you taken by the Morgloth.”
There was only one honest answer, though it made no sense at all. The wonder of Zarost’s spell left little understanding in its wake.
“I had the help of a wizard,” she said.
“The bald man?”
“You know him as an older man, but he is still Twardy Zarost.”
“The Riddler,” he said, then was silent for a long time. Tabitha didn’t think she could explain it all, and she didn’t try. It was good to feel his arms return the embrace at last, even if it was weakly.
“The Morgloth,” Garyll said. “You sang, and they became empty air.”
“The Lifesong passes through me. I have accepted it as my power. I am a wizard now, Garyll. That was the riddle that the Darkmaster couldn’t solve.”
Garyll dropped his hands and pulled away.
“And I am a traitor,” he said.
She reached for him, but he brushed her hands gently away from his shoulders, and stood. “I must face the justice of that,” he said. Despite his injuries, he stood with a straight back, a pillar of armour. Tabitha cried for what that armour held inside.
“No, Garyll! We were all wounded by the Darkmaster. He found a weakness within each of us.”
“That he did,” he whispered, and nodded, as if that confirmed his purpose. “Goodbye, Miss Serannon. To know you live, is all I need.” He brushed past her.
“Garyll, no!” Tabitha ran beyond him, and met his chest with both of her hands, yet he strode on, as if she were not there. She looked into his eyes, but found nothing besides the stony gaze he hid behind.
“What was your weakness?” she cried. “What was your weakness?”
That stopped him. He did not look at her, but off into the distance, for a long time. A tear, as delicate as a pearl, traced a line through the dried blood on his cheek.
“To love you,” he said. The tear caught the light of the setting sun, on the angle of his chin.
“Then let it become a strength,” Tabitha said. “Whatever else you believe, you were never a traitor to me.”
“I have failed the duty of Swordmaster. I am not the same man you knew.”
“I don’t care if you’ve changed! I still love you!”
“The Swordmaster deserves justice.”
“Let the Swordmaster die then, if you must!” Tabitha clenched her fists against the sudden alarm at her own words. The statement had come from a deep place within, the place of truth; the Truthsayer’s heart.
“But let Garyll live,” she finished, “that I might love him.”
Some people passed them, a woman and a child supporting a limping man between them. Garyll waited for them to pass, but the woman recognised him, and brought the trio closer.
“Bless you, Swordmaster. You saved our little girl.”
The limping man nodded, his lips set grimly against his own pain. He didn’t need to speak—his gratitude was plain.
Garyll closed his eyes. The woman seemed to realise he was going to say nothing, for she blessed him again, quietly. The little girl threw her arms around the Swordmaster’s leg. Then her mother drew her back, and the trio moved away.
Something had changed in Garyll when he looked at Tabitha again.
He drew a long, ragged breath. Suddenly his cheeks were wet with tears, though he kept his gaze firmly on Tabitha.
“I don’t deserve such love.”
“Yet it is here,” she answered, extending her hand to him. “Come with me, Garyll, come away from this battle. It is over.”
He almost took her hand. Tabitha searched his face for the reason that he jerked his hand away. His brow was furrowed with determination.
“No. There is one thing left to do.”
He raised his left hand. The day had ended, and the four blades were now dark fingers in the gathering dusk. He turned the blades towards his face. They were not quite steady.
Tabitha held her breath.
He fretted with something on his arm, then he lowered the gauntlet, stepped on it, and pulled his left arm free. The stump where his hand had been was an angry, livid scar.
He straightened, and met Tabitha’s gaze.
“Help me with this,” he said, indicating a buckle against his ribs.
She helped him work free of the armour, first the breastplate and shoulder-guards, then the dented helm, and the blood-stained coat of mail. He even pulled his heavy fighting boots off, and set them on the pile.
He waited a long while, with his sheathed sword resting across his knees. Then at last he pressed the hilt to his forehead, and set Felltang upon the discarded symbols of his life.
“Let the King decide who shall carry that blade,” he said.
When Tabitha extended her hand this time, he took it.
A great roll of thunder sounded from off to the north, where a mass of dark cloud dispersed on great winds beyond River’s End. The earth shook under their feet, just the once. Then Eyri was calm.
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Table of Contents
Other titles by the same author
Copyright
PREFACE
1. THE GLEE OF GENESIS
2. THE RIDDLER
3. THE WIZARD’S RING
4. THE MESSENGER
5. THE SEED OF POWER
6. THE DEAD OF NIGHT
7. DARK DREAMS
8. THREE MORNINGS
9. FRIENDS AND FIENDS
10. WINE
11. INHERITANCE
12. GATEWAY
13. FISHERMAN’S REVENGE
14. ORDER
15. SURVIVAL
16. PURSUIT
17. STORMHAVEN
18. RAVENSCROFT
19. ECHOES OF ETHEA
20. MIDNIGHT’S PASS
21. KING OF EYRI
22. SHADOWS AND SCENTS
23. KINGSBRIDGE
24. LOVE AND LIES
25. ENTER THE DOVE
26. GOOD TIDINGS
27. THE DARKEST NIGHT
28. ATONEMENT
29. VEILED ANSWERS
30. SHATTERED DREAMS
31. A TRICK OF THE LIGHT
32. ECLIPSE
33. THE GYRE
34. BLACK RIVER
35. MOSAIC
36. KING’S CROSS
37. THE BURDEN OF BETRAYAL
38. WALKING ON SUNLIGHT
39. WHISPERS OF WAR
40. ONE STRONG MAN
41. THE WINDING OF PASSION
42. BURDENS AND BARDSONG
43. NIGHT ON THE KINGSBRIDGE
44. ALLIES AND TRAITORS
45. THE COMING OF DARKNESS
46. WIZARD OF EYRI
47. A WIZARD’S END
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The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 78