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

by Greg Hamerton

  * * *

  Ashley Logán squinted against the glare. The training yard at the Dovecote was dazzling, more so than usual. His sprites seemed pale above the sudden fierceness of the white sand.

  His attention was broken, and he shielded his eyes as he looked up. The remains of a starburst rolled towards the horizon, a perfect ring of silver; silent, sparkling. The remains of a falling star, they said, but that legend had often puzzled him. It was broad daylight, and everyone knew that stars only came out at night.

  “Attend, Logán!” The sharp voice brought him back to the present—the Dovecote in Levin, and his duties as an apprentice. Lightgifter Hosanna stood before him, all regal and indignant. She wore her crisp beauty like an accusation of his mediocrity—her honeyed hair was pulled into a perfect plait, her robe was the whitest white, and the pert line of her lips always a precise curve. The knot at her waist always lay flat. She would be truly beautiful if she smiled, once in a while. He tried to look apologetic as he weathered her tirade.

  “Is this task beyond you, half-knot? Shall we move on to someone more capable? If the sprites are to be wasted, there are better uses for them.”

  Ashley shook his head. “It was too bright, Sister. I’ll try again.”

  He had been attempting to link the flows of Light essence into one pattern when the starburst had upset him. The complexity of the spell boggled his mind. To command his own sprites was easy, but to join many sources into one unified spell required immense concentration.

  “There can never be too much Light,” Hosanna stated, “only those who don’t yet have the strength to face it. The fault is not with the essence.”

  Ashley nodded. It did no good to disagree with a full Gifter, especially one like Hosanna when she was in a preaching mood. One rebuttal would lead to a dissertation. He flicked his gaze around the circle. Fifteen apprentices were ranged around him, the ‘half-knots’ of the Dovecote. Sprites swirled in readiness above their upturned palms. The two Gifters, Sister Hosanna and Sister Grace, who wore fully knotted cords around their white robes, watched him expectantly.

  He sent his awareness out to all the sources of the Light essence, and tried to hold in mind the pattern that would link them all into a perfect Flicker spell, the Lightgifter’s flame. He spoke the slow words of invocation. Sprites came to him from three of the apprentices, then four, five. He strained to reach the others. He was determined to prove himself better than Hosanna expected. He pushed his concentration to the limit. Six, seven sources.

  Then it seemed as if somebody poured a handful of sand over his head from behind. Something trickled through his hair, and stung his scalp with a hot tingle. Silver dust collected on his shoulders, then disappeared into the fabric. The world lurched, and his spell erupted into chaos.

  There were voices, confused voices, jabbering and whispering voices, all speaking at the same time. He saw a blonde youth in a white robe, standing on the sand, but the image was split, as if reflected in many mirrors, and he saw the same half-knot from different angles in the same instant. He recognised the apprentice.

  That’s me.

  Voices, voices, voices.

  Sprites left upturned hands, and combined in a pattern he had never seen before. Light rushed from the pattern like a bursting of the sun. With it came a blast of sound, so loud that Ashley was thrown to the ground. It was the crash of thunder added to the boom of breaking rock, the roar of a beast and a hammer’s blow combined, a howling, shrieking, deafening sound that drove deep into his ears. The bare sand quivered where he lay. Too many sprites, too much Light released. Pain and shock swirled through the people around him, driven by the wake of the awful peal, and he knew their distress. People cursed, and their rancour scoured his mind, as if they were within his head.

  He couldn’t escape the ire—there was nowhere to go, they were within him.

  Ashley clung to the sand, and tried to believe that it wasn’t true. But it felt as if a cleaver had parted his skull, and his mind was open to the lash of every angry will around him. He cowered where he lay, twitching against the virulent thoughts that invaded his mind. Gradually, the Lightgifters and half-knots recovered from their shock, and so the animosity faded, and he came back to himself.

  He was Ashley Logán. He didn’t want to open his eyes until he was sure.

  Gentle hands lifted him. The shade of the Dovecote building passed over him, the stone steps were cool beneath him. He kept his eyes closed. He tried to make sense of the many voices he could hear. A soft Healall spell began to work through his body, and he privately thanked Sister Grace for her kindness. Grace. He didn’t look up, somehow he knew it was her. Her voice filled his head.

  “Poor Ashley. Hosanna shouldn’t have pushed him so hard.”

  Ashley lay completely still. Unspoken words, but clear in his mind.

  He opened his eyes. A brown wall cut the sun from the sky. Apprentices circled close in silence. Concern aged their youthful faces. Sister Grace wove sprites over him, her grey eyes determined, her experienced hands gentle.

  Something had gone wrong with his Flicker spell, or something had gone too right. Before he could decide which it was, a heavy tread approached from within the Dovecote at his back.

  “What is it? What has this boy done?”

  Ashley’s heart sank. Rector Shamgar. There was nothing worse in the whole world than to come under the scrutiny of the leader of the Lightgifters. Nobody spoke.

  “Sister Hosanna, a report. What has occurred, and what was that flash in the practice yard? What?”

  “My apologies, Illumination. Apprentice Ashley lost command during a linking exercise. He could not control his Flicker. Something—strange was created.”

  Ashley was certain that the Rector sneered, though he couldn’t see him. “Was anyone injured with this incompetent spell?”

  A mutter rippled through the apprentices, but no one mentioned their pains.

  “Shame on you, then, for weakness!” the Rector declared. “Hosanna, for your weak judgement in pushing a half-baked half-knot. Grace, for your succour of this fumbler. He’ll not learn if you soften his failures. And shame mostly on you, Ashley Logán, for causing harm with the holy Light essence!” Ashley didn’t dare turn. He could see the purple hem of the Rector’s robe close behind him.

  “The boy has no idea what he’s wasted!”

  Ashley drew a sudden breath. He had heard the Rector’s voice, yet Shamgar hadn’t spoken. “If this fumbler doesn’t lay apology at my feet, I shall have him scrubbing for a week!”

  Ashley turned quickly on his knees, and spoke to the Rector’s robe. “I’m sorry, Illumination. I lost command. I beg forgiveness.” Ashley looked up just in time to see the small, indulgent smile tucked into the corner of the Rector’s fat cheek.

  “As you were, then.” The Rector said, waving a dismissing hand. “I have important tasks, and little time, what?” He disappeared into the Dovecote once more.

  “Full of compliments, isn’t he?” thought Sister Grace.

  It was as near to a curse as the gentle Lightgifter could come. Ashley giggled at her sense of humour, and found that once he’d begun, he couldn’t stop. He needed to laugh. He was hearing voices in his head, and he knew who spoke when they didn’t speak at all. It was quite possible that he was going mad.

  Sister Grace frowned, and resumed the Healall spell, touching him with a practised web of Light, humming the words that bound the sprites.

  “I think his seizure has passed,” she thought. “I hope the laughter isn’t a sign of damage.”

  Ashley grinned at her. She had such clear, grey eyes.

  “What a dashing young man. If I were younger, I would –”

  Ashley jerked upright. He was definitely going mad. He concentrated on his own voice, in the hope that the others would fade away.

  “Thank you, Sister Grace. I feel stronger. I’m better now.”

  No voices invaded his thoughts again, but the suspicion of the Sister’s
affection was an ember that wouldn’t pale. The Lightgifter Grace! By the Creator, she’s thirty years older than me! Yet the years had been kind, and she bore her beauty with carefree modesty. He couldn’t deny that he had watched her, as she progressed about her work.

  His ears were warm. He stood quickly, and took a position on the Sandfield. The class resumed, but he caught himself watching Sister Grace when she filled a sconce with retrieved sprites.

  * * *

  Tabitha Serannon dreamt, as she lay in the meadow.

  In her dream, a silver star burst across the sky. She heard the singing of many voices, a choral symphony, beautiful, complex. Then she was carried through the sky by the giant composition. She soared on its themes. She played wild notes on a golden lyre, following a strangely timed tune that was haunting and powerful. She sang potent words, and other voices joined her in harmony, and she felt her voice ring clear across the universe, bringing vitality where there was none, linking everything with a pulse of life, binding a million fragments into one. Then silver stardust trickled down through the boughs of an oak tree in her dream. She felt the tingle of the dust as if it had touched her forehead.

  She woke to the insistent bleating of sheep.

  “Come on, lazy-bones!” her father called out. “Noonday nap is over. We need a hand with the herding! Quick!”

  Father. It had been a relief to see his smiling face at the inn, and to hear that all was well on the farm. Now that she was back, her fears seemed childish. Nothing was wrong on Phantom Acres; no wicked Shadowcasters had breached the peace. The sky was late-winter blue, empty and cool. The branches of the oak tree reached out in silence, overhead.

  “Coming!” she called, rising to her feet and dusting her dress off. She raised a cautious hand to brush her forehead, but there was no trace of silver there. Her hair was soft, and clean.

  Her parents were dipping the sheep. Only as she jogged over to them did she notice the chaos. The sheep were crowding the trough, and behaving strangely. The dripping ewes wriggled and fought to stay in the dip, and the lambs circled back after being ejected, trying to sneak around for a second try. Getting the sheep into the trough was usually the problem, but today they jostled and bleated for the honour.

  Tabitha ran some of the wet sheep away with a switch, chasing them until they forgot the bath. When the sheep reached the limit of their memory, they became content to munch on the grass.

  They were simple creatures. Tending them was usually tedious. Tabitha’s mind drifted along a familiar path. She would become a singer in Stormhaven, or be accepted as a Lightgifter, if she were lucky enough to be chosen.

  If she were a Lightgifter, she could marry a noble, live in a grand house in Levin or Stormhaven, or on an estate in the northern lands of rich Vinmorgen County. Yet her mother had left the Dovecote to work this farm. Hank Serannon was the man her mother loved, and Hank Serannon was the man she had married. Tabitha wondered if she would ever find that depth of love, something that made dipping sheep seem like a pleasure. Times could be hard on Phantom Acres, with the bitter winters, wolves and wildcats, and the yearly tithe to the landlord.

  She loved her parents dearly, but they must know that one day she would want to leave. With her selection for the King’s Challenge, that day might be sooner than ever.

  Back at the trough, the sheep were a chaos of milling, bleating, jumping wool, some wet, some dry, all trying to get past her father’s big hands and into the dip trough.

  “What did you put in the water?” Tabitha shouted above the clamour. “They’re all mad.”

  Trisha was peering into the trough herself. “The usual Healall spell, I just added something to make the wool grow thick and fleecy!” One ewe cleared Hank’s arms and landed with a huge splash. Tabitha giggled at the sight of her mother the Lightgifter, scolding the wide-eyed sheep that had drenched her. The Dovecote couldn’t suspect that one woman used the healing sprites to better tend her husband’s sheep.

  Thinking about the Dovecote reminded Tabitha of singing, and the strange dream. She approached her parents.

  “Was there a starburst a while ago?” she asked her father.

  “Yup, big old silver circle out across the sky. Quite a good one.”

  She paused, turning to her mother. “Did you hear anything?”

  “They never make a sound, dear,” Trisha said. “Just a ring of light. If I didn’t know better I’d have said it was the starburst that unsettled the sheep. Why, what is it?”

  “I was dreaming. I thought I heard singing.”

  “Dreaming of winning the King’s Challenge?” her mother teased, though with a hint of pride.

  “No, no, it was more than a wish, it was different—new. The song is still there, but as faint as a whisper.”

  Her mother gave her a strange look. “Then it might be more than a dream. Why don’t you start preparing our supper early. When I come up to the house, you can try to play the music for me, before you forget it.”

  “And if there isn’t a fine song, I’ll know you were dodging another afternoon of being a shepherdess!” Hank warned, a good-natured smile on his broad face. “Why can’t you be more like your mother? She loves sheep.”

  He received an elbow in his ribs for his troubles. Tabitha laughed, and ran.

  “Don’t forget the eggs on the way up!” came her mother’s shout. Tabitha heard her, but in her mind she was already playing a golden lyre and singing a song of a hundred voices. If she could only remember it, she was sure it would be a sensation, at the King’s Challenge. If she could create a new song even half as wondrous, she would become a famous singer.

  She was not going to chase animals all her life. She hummed to herself as she ducked into the chicken coop. Hens scattered underfoot.

  When she came upon the third broken egg, she realised there was chaos in the lay-house as well. Eggs were hiding in impossible places, tucked up underneath the roof, balanced in the corners of narrow perches. Many lay shattered on the floor, wasted among the droppings and straw.

  She scolded the hens, and tucked what meagre bounty she could find into a basket. The hens continued to cluck and squawk long after she had pulled their door closed. Maybe the starburst affected them too. Maybe they heard the complexity of sounds which teased her own mind, voices coming and going like echoes in the wind.

  She wanted to sing, to set it all in order. There was a pattern and structure to the music, if she could just find a place to begin.

    

  Kirjath Arkell spat a lump of jurrum onto the street.

  The wrath of the Darkmaster scoured Fendwarrow like a winter storm, and Kirjath was driven to action. Children were probably wetting their beds, even in their mother’s arms. The men he had seen turned away, white-faced. Only the Shadowcasters would escape retribution tonight, and only because they were inflicting the Darkmaster’s fury upon others. Kirjath didn’t doubt that the Darkmaster would turn his wrath on his own Shadowcasters when they failed. Cabal’s anger would feed upon itself, because he had made the mistake. The Darkmaster had lost his ring.

  Kirjath had never seen a ring on the Master’s hand. Yet Cabal insisted that there was one, made of glass, so clear that it reflected no light at all. To find it during the day would have been difficult. To find it at night, with the moon a naked sickle in the sky, was a bitter waste of time. Yet find it they must, or they would all scream under the lash for their failure. Already the Master had sent a wave of Dark essence through the streets, bringing the cold grip of coercion to every Fendwarren. No one would dare to leave this village tonight, no one would be able to hide. The fear washed over the villagers like a hungry beast breathing down their necks, and the force of duty gripped the Shadowcasters by their throats.

  Kirjath cursed under his breath. He had been taken away from a night of dealing and debauchery, and a secret trade of jurrum seed which had taken months to set up. The Darkmaster cared nothing for his plans. They were all just pawns to the Dar
kmaster, little pieces on a board, to be ordered this way and that. He was Kirjath Arkell! He deserved more respect. He gritted his teeth.

  I am the shadow and he is my Master.

  To learn the ways of the motes, to own the Darkstone, he had to follow that oath. The benefits of serving Cabal outweighed the disadvantages. But the Darkmaster pushed those who served him to the limit of their tolerance.

  They spent the better part of the night scouring the streets to find the strange missing ring. Then the Darkmaster ordered them to enter the houses. Their agreement with the Fendwarrens would be breached, but Kirjath didn’t care. The bond to the Master worked both ways. What he did in the Master’s name was not on his conscience. He was under orders.

  His boot crashed hard against the door and the lock tore from the weak wood. He stalked into the house, grinning, the motes of Dark essence swirling close in his wake. Time to work the Master’s will.

  A man came at him from the shadows. He was easy to see, wearing a clean night-shirt, brandishing a cudgel of sorts. Kirjath summoned the motes to cover his own body, and side-stepped the man’s charge, using the cover of darkness to hide his movement. A woman screamed, and Kirjath felt the hot rush of anticipation course through his veins. He would get to the woman, in time. First, he had to teach her husband a lesson about the folly of resisting a Shadowcaster.

  He had learned many spells in Ravenscroft, though they followed the same basic form. Draw the black motes to his hand with the Summoning spell. With the aid of the Darkstone at his throat, form them into the pattern of his need, and release them with the spoken word.

  “Illusion, stand beside me now,” he whispered, and gestured to his right. The motes wove tightly to his body, then shifted away to fill the space beside him with a figure. To the man in the night-shirt, there would suddenly be two intruders. Kirjath backed a few paces into the deeper shadows.

  The man leapt to tackle the false figure. In the certain light of day, he might have seen that the figure was not quite human, made only of a shifting skin of darkness. The man’s arms found air. He crashed headlong onto the floor.