Oh, Mercy, he thinks I’m the child-snatcher.
She shook her head violently. She held Kip with her right hand, and Glavenor had her left, so she was forced to point with her chin down the street, to where her captor had escaped. The gesture appeared idiotic, no doubt, and there was nothing for the Swordmaster to see when he finally caught her meaning. The street was empty, there was no trace of the black-robed felon, nothing within the shadows, or without.
When Glavenor turned on her again, his voice was as forgiving as an iron bar. “It’ll go easier on you if you just come along, without a fuss.”
The stranger will get away! she tried to say. Not even a whisper passed from her lips; she had lost her voice, and so had Kip. That was more terrifying than anything she had endured.
“The child,” he said, extending his free hand. She let the Swordmaster take Kip. He placed the tearful boy high on his shoulder. She offered no resistance when Glavenor led her away.
The route the Swordmaster chose took them toward the centre of First Light. The villagers would be gathered outside the Tooth-and-Tale, the inn which was hosting this year’s singing contest.
The contest! Tabitha realised with alarm. How am I going to sing at all? She tried to free her hand from Glavenor’s grip, but he shot her a forbidding glance.
She knew Glavenor was a good man. He had brought justice to the village in the few times he had passed through. He was a hero of Eyri, young for his rank, but peerless. To be led in his hand like a bad girl was deeply embarrassing. That he might consider her to be a felon was worse, but she couldn’t talk to save herself.
As they drew nearer to the people, she quailed. People from all over Meadowmoor County, some of them she didn’t even know. She was supposed to stand before that crowd tonight and entertain them with her singing. She could not be led before them like this. Not by the Swordmaster.
Glavenor seemed to understand her distress, for he eased his grip on her wrist. “You try to run, I’ll catch you.”
Tabitha nodded, mute. The Swordmaster allowed her to walk beside him unrestrained, but he was near enough to fall upon her in an instant.
As soon as they neared the sprawling inn and joined the edge of the milling crowd outside, a stout woman cut a path towards them. Mrs Quilt brooked no nonsense, and the innkeeper’s eyes were firmly locked onto her toddler.
“And where have you been?” Mrs Quilt scolded, with only a cursory nod to Glavenor to acknowledge his presence.
Glavenor handed the child over. Mrs Quilt hugged Kip close.
“Thank you, Swordmaster! And Tabitha. Where did you find him?”
Tabitha gagged on her reply, then hid her inability with a cough. The shock grew worse, every time she tried to speak. She dropped her eyes.
“This young lady was trying to escape with your child,” Glavenor said, at her side.
Mrs Quilt was instantly offended. “Tabitha? A child-snatcher?” Surprised faces within the crowd turned their way. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s wrong, isn’t he, Tabitha?”
Tabitha shook her head, then nodded, then paddled in the air with her hands. How could she explain chasing the man in the black robe, and the horror of being caught? She gestured toward her throat, then held up an open palm.
“I take it this young lady is a mute?” asked Glavenor.
“Tabitha Serannon is our truthsayer!” Mrs Quilt said. “What’s the matter, Tabitha?”
But Tabitha couldn’t answer.
Glavenor’s eyebrows rode upwards. “This is Trisha Serannon’s daughter?” he asked. “She’s changed a lot since I was last here.” His expression softened, though in his disciplined features, it was hard to be sure.
Two years. He had last been in First Light two years ago. Tabitha remembered lingering wherever he was in the village, and wishing she would one day find the courage to talk to him. She was surprised Glavenor remembered her at all.
Glavenor watched her with a level gaze. “Why did you run from me, when I first saw you with the child?”
Tabitha touched her throat, and shook her head again. Dry, terrifying silence.
“Maybe she’s been practising too hard for the singing tonight,” suggested someone within the crowd. Tabitha pointed to the toddler, then back to herself, and mimed speech.
“What’s wrong with the youngling?” someone called out.
“There’s nothing wrong with my Kip!” Mrs Quilt exclaimed. She held Kip at arm’s length, but it was plain for all to see that he was trying to cry, yet making no sound.
“Wait! I’ve seen this before,” Glavenor said. His brows were gathered like storm clouds. “Be damned that it could happen here! Is there a Lightgifter in the village?”
“Only Tabitha’s mother, but she’s out on their farm,” replied Mrs Quilt.
“Any spritesalt?” he demanded. An uncomfortable mutter passed through the crowd.
“I have some,” offered a prim little lady who Tabitha knew as Fran Semple. “It’s expensive,” she added. That was no lie; the healing spritesalt was not something to be thrown about.
“Heavens, Fran! I’ll pay for it,” exclaimed Mrs Quilt.
“The King’s coin will pay for it,” Glavenor corrected. “If this is what I suspect, I must act fast.”
Fran Semple offered the Swordmaster a small vial. The blue glass glowed with an inner light. Glavenor removed the stopper with care. Even so, a few sprites spilled to the ground. Fran Semple frowned, but said nothing. Glavenor took a pinch of spritesalt, and slipped it into the toddler’s mouth. Kip pushed his tongue out at what Tabitha knew to be a sharp taste, then he swallowed.
Tabitha waited with the hushed crowd. If this didn’t work -
She didn’t want to think about it.
The toddler coughed once, drew a rasping breath, and howled at the top of his lungs. Despite the appreciative murmur of the crowd and the toddler’s wail, Glavenor’s quiet curse found Tabitha’s ears.
“Shadowcaster.”
She wished she had not heard that word. It made her hand quiver as she took a hasty pinch of spritesalt for herself from the vial Glavenor offered. A Shadowcaster could not have come to First Light. Their kind were only heard of in Fendwarrow, leagues to the east. She noted how Glavenor had clenched his jaw.
She recalled the stranger’s predatory eyes. The way he had wrapped the gloom around him. The way he had forced cold into her throat. She had not wanted to consider the possibility, she still did not want to. She had been touched by a Shadowcaster. The sprites worked their magic, releasing the Light essence, and she coughed against their sudden warmth.
“Kip was taken by a stranger,” she announced. Her voice was scratchy, as if she had sand in her throat, but it was a voice, at least. “I chased after them. I found Kip, but the man was hiding, and he came up behind me, with a knife. He was taking us both out of the village when you arrived, Swordmaster. He fled, but he said he would be back, and that I should remain silent. That’s when I lost my voice. He used the Dark essence, I think. He wore a black robe. He was a Shadowcaster.”
So saying, she confirmed the truth, for she was the village Truthsayer. Her skill compelled honesty, and her word was true. The man who had abducted her, here in First Light, was a Shadowcaster, no matter how chilling it was to believe.
Through the telling of her story, Glavenor had become still, though he was anything but calm. He was a cat, tensing for the hunt. A large and dangerous cat. He nodded, slowly.
“They evade the law like rats in the dark,” he said. “Describe him.”
“He was tall, like you, but—thinner. I didn’t get to see much else but his grey eyes, the whites were all yellow.”
Glavenor grunted. “Jurrum. They all use it.”
“The tales of the Shadowcasters are real?” challenged Mrs Quilt.
“The casters are real, all right,” the Swordmaster answered. “I have too many reports to say otherwise. But I wouldn’t believe half of the tales about them. When I catch this vermin, I
am sure we shall find that it squeaks.”
“But what’s he doing in First Light?” Mrs Quilt demanded.
Garyll shrugged. “It’s always been lone farms and Lightgifters they’ve harassed, until now, I’ve not heard of them in a village, and never this far from Fendwarrow.” He backed away from Tabitha and the others. “When he left you, which way did he run?”
“Toward where you came from. I thought you were the Shadowcaster, returning.”
“Swordmaster! What should we do?” someone cried from within the crowd.
“Get indoors, and keep a closer eye on your children. I shall rouse the Sword and scour the village. We shall find him, or cause him to flee.”
The Swordmaster caught Tabitha’s eye last. His level gaze made her stand straighter. In that moment, she forgave him for arresting her. He was the Swordmaster of Eyri; he carried the weight of the sword of justice. He had to be thorough, and firm. Then he turned, and was running.
She wished she could have asked him how she had changed in his eyes, that he had not recognised her.
* * *
The Tooth-and-Tale was crowded, even though it was enlarged for the contest night. The wall furthest from the bar had been swung back on its giant hinges, and the common-room was linked to the hall beyond, an innovation which had seen the Tooth become the place for all village gatherings, back when the Tall Hall had burned down.
A singer, on the hearth-side stage, strained to be heard over the clamour. Tabitha was kept too busy serving drinks to worry about the unfairness of the noise on contest night. She couldn’t quieten the patrons—she was the one they were talking about. Her and the Shadowcaster.
As the wisdom of fermented liquids took hold, the inspired opinions became louder. More than one patron held the door with a wary eye. Any newcomer dressed in a dark cloak generated a gust of silence before the clamour returned, redoubled.
Tabitha just wished her voice would heal in time; she would have to hold a strong voice tonight to be noticed. She took a quick sip of Honeydew when she reached the bar. It soothed her throat, but not her nerves.
“Five Dwarrow, two Dew,” she called out to Mrs Quilt, and set the coins on the bar. Mrs Quilt checked the payment with a tireless enthusiasm that would have made her late husband proud. Old Stamper Quilt had been very enthusiastic about money. Too much so, some said. It was gold that had led him to his untimely end—the hope of an enlarged profit from dealing direct with the winegrowers in Bentwood County. A bridge had given way. Nothing could be proved, yet they all suspected the tale had a dark side; it didn’t pay for innkeepers to bypass the wagoneers and agents when acquiring wine. Almost a year now, since Old Stamper had braved the road to Fendwarrow. Mrs Quilt forged on without him now, and she didn’t show signs of strain so long as she was selling wine and collecting coin. Mrs Quilt filled Tabitha’s glasses with a practised hand, set the dark reds beside the two of pale gold, and sent Tabitha on her way. It was tricky to balance the loaded tray through the crowd and reach the patrons who had ordered the wine without spilling it on the way.
Most of the orders were for the Dwarrow wine. Two barrels had arrived that day, and they stood high on the end of the bar in clear sight, the characteristic brand-mark burned in the tap-ends. The price of the Dwarrow rose with every barrel as its lusty reputation grew. A large profit could be turned by trading in such a wine.
Two men began to fight, and Tabitha backed away from the commotion, keeping her tray high. The unrest subsided as she rounded it when others pulled the men apart, yet the argument continued to simmer below the surface of tight expressions. She hoped that the bystanders were wise enough to keep those men apart all night, and to change their drinks for something milder.
Such was the cost of trading in Dwarrow. Everyone who drank it seemed to become boisterous, or angry. Yet they hollered for more, and as they demanded, so Mrs Quilt sold. At a profit.
Tabitha dispensed the drinks, and heard a new voice take up the challenge from the stage. She turned to watch Lyndall for a moment. She hoped the innkeeper’s daughter made the cut for the King’s Challenge. Lyndall Quilt was a good friend. The sturdy blonde was singing Fynn Fell Down, and that meant it was almost time. Tabitha would be next. A nervous thrill skittered through her stomach. She hurried back to the bar, to steal a last few sips of Honeydew before her voice would be put to the test.
A skew-toothed youth thumped away on an empty wine-casket to the beat of Lyndall’s song. He kept a reasonable time, and folks began to follow his lead, clapping, or beating their tankards on the tables. The dancing began on the open floor, and Lyndall had to compete with the revelry. She was doing well, though. She had caught the crowd, and that would count in her favour.
Even little Kip was trying to clap his hands in time to his sister’s song. He was sitting where he had been placed, in clear view upon the bar beside Mrs Quilt. Tabitha waved to him, and he googled and smiled, all his tears forgotten. Tabitha wished she could forget so easily; she could still feel the dry grip of silence that had held her captive.
The sweet Honeydew wine was cold and clear, as if it retained all the sunshine and freshness of Flowerton, but the glass wasn’t deep enough, and Lyndall’s singing seemed to end too soon after it had begun. Before Tabitha could even test her voice, she found herself approaching the stage through the waning applause for Lyndall. She collected her lyre from the corner. She plucked the strings gently to settle her stance on the stage, and to announce her readiness, though she was not ready at all. Butterflies had taken permanent residence in her belly.
The judges for Meadowmoor were seated close by—the three Elders from First Light, and one each from Russel, Cellarspring and Brimstone. Similar trials would be taking place in each county around Eyri—the town of Wright would hold Westfold’s contest, Flowerton would stage Vinmorgen’s, the singers in Rockroute County would be tested in Respite, and in Fendwarrow the sultry voices of Bentwood would be driving the revellers wild. Tabitha wondered just how many singers were singing that night in Eyri, and if she would be lucky enough to meet them at the King’s Challenge.
“I’m to play the Glee of Genesis,” she announced. “Could you set me down a glass, of your choosing?”
The elder from Russel, a spry lady with a delicate shawl about her shoulders, sat forward on her seat. “You can do that part of the song?”
“I hope so.”
The placing of the glass on the edge of the stage brought a new surge of speculation from the crowd, and it was to a returning clamour that Tabitha strummed the introduction to the Glee. She abandoned herself to the music. She could do nothing about the crowd, except win their silence by singing.
It was a beautiful song, and one she loved to sing. Her mother had taught her well, and yet Tabitha had surpassed even Trisha’s singing of it. There were few singers who could perform the Glee of Genesis as it was intended, and reach the high Shiver. She stroked her lyre, and gave voice to the myth of creation. Her voice held.
The Glee told of the Creator’s first elements and how they warred. Air rushed through Fire, blowing the red flames high and far. The melody rose. Fire was angered so deeply it burned gentle Water, and thus set great clouds to fill the Air. The notes went higher. Water appealed to Earth, and so the rocks rose up and swallowed the Fire whole, for Earth and Water were lovers. But even the Earth could not contain the anger of Fire, and so great streaks of flame erupted from the rocks, and the surface of the ground was scorched.
The notes of the Glee climbed to the sky, and Tabitha’s voice held. The Goddess Ethea threaded music through the elements, bringing balance to their strife, weaving currents in the chaos, binding the elements into a sphere filled with the infinite patterns of life.
Tabitha followed the final melody of the Glee of Genesis, raising the notes. The crowd barely murmured. She wished there was a way to fill the gaps in the room with her sound, to touch the people with the vibration of every note. She felt the lack in her singing most keenly, she sensed
there could be more to it, but tonight she had to settle for the fact that most of the village listened, and waited for the ascent, the final high note.
The wine-glass resting on the stone caught the orange light of the lamps overhead. She followed the path of the pure notes, upwards, to her limit.
The crowd was hushed. She could feel the imperfection in the glass waiting to turn her voice. She reached for the note of the Shiver.
In the legend, the sphere of the elements exploded to a million fragments upon that note. All life was set free in the Universe, bound only by the skin of time. In the Tooth-and-Tale, before the crowd and judges of the Singer’s Contest, the glass shattered.
Tabitha wound the Glee of Genesis to a close with the last few words, of how the Goddess Ethea’s song was now just an echo, heard by few, but the crowd had already erupted into applause, and her voice was drowned. She knew she had done well, for the stamping and whistling was louder than it had been even for Lyndall.
She guessed that the Dwarrow wine had much to do with the applause, but she still felt a surge of pride. Her throat tingled, but her voice had been true to the end. It had been her best performance. Only when she rose from a curtsey to the crowd did she notice the magnitude of what she had done. Embarrassment flared across her cheeks.
Not only the selected glass had been shattered.
All around the stage, drinks had spilled from glasses broken in hand. Mrs Quilt eyed a jumble of shards on the bar, and worst of all, the Swordmaster was there, seated amidst broken glass. Glavenor was gripping his forearm. She hadn’t even seen him enter. He picked at something embedded in the flesh, and set it on the bar. A red bloom spread from his wound. He pressed a cloth to his arm, and shook the remaining glass from his lap as he stood.
The world spun around Tabitha, with the thunder of applause.
Glavenor looked up at her. His crimped smile held no anger. He joined the applause. For the first time in her life Tabitha wished she had not sung so well.
“Sorry,” she said to one and all, when the clamour subsided at last. “I’m terribly sorry.”
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 2
