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

by Greg Hamerton

  “Kirjath!” Cabal rasped dryly.

  “Yes, Master?”

  “I put an important task in your hand.” Cabal kept his voice low. Whispering always made men like Arkell think they were being offered a secret. As if he would extend his trust that far!

  Kirjath gazed blankly at him and nodded for him to continue. The cheek of it!

  “I shall be leaving,” Cabal announced.

  “And abandon the search for the ring? I thought that you valued it highly. Master.” There was a hint of distaste in the second word. Answering the Darkmaster without the honorific would have earned Arkell a painful blast of essence, and he knew it. Yet the deference was always a shade too hesitant.

  Cabal held Kirjath’s pale eye until the Shadowcaster dropped his gaze.

  “My Morrigán tell me that the King’s Justice approaches. That man is too righteous to be confronted here. He cannot be turned in time.”

  “The Swordmaster?” Kirjath asked with a sneer.

  Cabal nodded.

  “How do you know he cannot be turned?”

  Such insolence did not deserve an immediate answer. It deserved a long week in the torture rooms in Ravenscroft. Cabal looked off into the distance.

  “You will stay here, and remain hidden. It will be your task to search for my ring, wherever that search takes you, however long it takes. I want that talisman found!”

  “How will I find the ring, if you have failed here?”

  “I have not failed!” shouted Cabal, turning on his underling. Kirjath didn’t even have the prudence to flinch. Cabal backhanded him. He put little weight behind his bony fist, more to save his own hand than for any feeling of mercy. He considered filling Arkell with essence, freezing him on the spot, and then hitting him again with a rock.

  “The ring lies in some corner of this town. When it moves, you shall know.”

  Kirjath pretended to be calm, but his ticking eyelid gave him away.

  “How will I know? Master.”

  Cabal considered his answer for a moment. Kirjath’s understanding of the talisman’s power might bring further trouble, but that was exactly why Kirjath was so perfect for the task. He would covet the Wizard’s Ring, and so would find it. If he was stupid enough to wear the Ring himself, he wouldn’t have the time to use it. He would be drawn back to Ravenscroft by the Darkstone at his throat. He probably didn’t realise how tightly the oath he’d made to his Master would bind him.

  Cabal didn’t answer the hanging question. Instead, he cast his mind back to when he’d first worn the Ring. He’d been daring, inventive and so very aware. It had been such an exciting time. Too brief, before he’d lost all that clarity. His advisor had hinted that there might be a way to regain the use of its power, but it involved releasing it from its safety-chain and leaving it untended in the sun. His advisor was wily; Cabal had never completely trusted the man. He’d kept the Ring close instead, and yet through all those frustrating years, he’d never found a way to affect it, to make it respond to him again. It had remained cold and useless. He hated the thought of someone else finding it, being able to tap its power.

  “Whoever finds the talisman will probably try to sell it,” he announced, somewhat hopefully. “If not, they should appear as a beacon to your senses, because they’ll have a guilty conscience. The Ring won’t let them lie to themselves. Everyone knows it is mine.”

  Kirjath didn’t look convinced. “Then why don’t I sense anyone now? There’s nobody in this town that hasn’t faced our Darkspells and none of them have confessed.”

  “Then the Ring is still lying hidden, or the thief has already left the village. There’s another thing. If someone with talent wears it, they’ll be trying all sorts of spells. New spells. Strong spells.”

  Kirjath considered this for a moment, and Cabal could read his thoughts as if they were spoken. If he found the Ring, he would probably try to use it. Then he’d want to keep it.

  So. The cur would have to be drawn back to Ravenscroft kicking and screaming against the compulsion of his Darkstone.

  Kirjath smiled with oily greed. “So I’m looking for the scent of a new spell, a sudden show of skill with the essence, someone who displays more talent than they should.”

  Cabal put a hand on the Shadowcaster’s shoulder, and let a subtle Domination spell seep through Kirjath’s cloak. The man understood his task, and he would stick to it. Although Cabal had his reservations, Kirjath was his best chance of finding the talisman, and he could not afford to be without it when he moved against the King. More to the truth, he could not afford someone else to discover it. It was too powerful.

  “Find it. Bring it back,” Cabal ordered.

  They parted ways then, in front of the Crowbar. Kirjath Arkell slipped into the shadows. Cabal rounded on the stables, a low-roofed hulk of a building set behind the inn, near the river’s edge.

  He had to leave, because the Swordmaster was coming. He was fleeing as if he was a frightened burglar! It was infuriating, but the time to face the King’s minister of Justice had not yet come. Timing was everything, in war. If you did not strike the right pieces at the right moment, years of work and planning could be for naught. His plan was intricate, and he wanted to choose the moment of its commencement.

  He mounted his rough-natured stallion, and it cowered underneath him, then bore him at a gallop from the grimy village, up the south-east trail for the secret pass to Ravenscroft. He let his left hand trail behind the saddle, brushing the ground with a fine touch of Dark essence. The hard-packed soil showed no trace of his passage in the gathering dusk. It would be morning before the Swordmaster reached Fendwarrow, but you could never be too careful with someone like Garyll Glavenor.

  Besides, Cabal had a special place for the Swordmaster in his plans.

  5. THE SEED OF POWER

  “Would you recognise an acorn,

  if you searched for an oak tree?”—Zarost

  At last, Tabitha could stand it no longer. Almost a week had passed, a week of long days which never seemed to end. The unspoken question lingered in the air wherever she went.

  The floors of the homestead had been scrubbed and waxed until they shone. Balls and balls of yarn had been spun for her mother’s loom. The pile of chopped wood she was stacking for her father had grown to the height of the eaves. And still no news.

  “Father, something’s wrong. We should have heard from her by now. We must go to Fendwarrow.”

  Hank rested his axe on the ground, and stared off into the east, where the last light of the sun fell against the harsh peaks of the Zunskar. “I’ll give her another day, but I agree with you, treasure. I can’t take this waiting either. We’ll go before the weekend. Madam Quilt will manage without you. Lord Winterborn be damned—I should have left the farm and gone with her in the first.” Hank set another short log on the chopping block. He hefted the axe above his head.

  Fendwarrow. A scourge of Shadowcasters, the messenger had said.

  The axe cleaved the wood with such force that the head was buried deep into the chopping block. Tabitha placed the next log for her father.

  Lone farms and Lightgifters, common targets for Shadowcasters.

  Smack! The heavy axe severed a knot, leaving jagged splinters. Tabitha retrieved the halves, and set them high on the woodpile.

  A rough sort, Garyll had called the Fendwarrens. She was glad her father had decided to go, but she was afraid as well. Too many things turned foul in Fendwarrow.

  A sudden movement caught her eye. Figures moving in the forest, riders on horseback, coming down from the High Way. Only two.

  “Father.”

  He followed her gaze. The riders took forever to wend their way down the few switchbacks in the trail. When they finally emerged into the meadow above the homestead, Tabitha’s heart leapt with joy. A Sword rode the lead horse, the same Sword who had departed from First Light. Behind him, rode her mother.

  They ran to meet the travellers. The horses cantered to close t
he final distance. They met on the high meadow behind the homestead, and Hank took Trisha from the saddle in his thick arms.

  “Ah, it’s good to have you back,” he said. “We were worried sick.”

  Trisha looked hard-worn and haggard. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t send word, my love. I used every scrap of Light essence to heal, yet it was still not enough to right the wrong in that village. There was nothing to tell, at any rate,” she ended, pulling Tabitha into the embrace as well. “There was no sign of Shadowcasters, only the aftermath of their work. There was little danger, only woe.”

  “I wish I was a Gifter,” said Tabitha, squeezing her mother’s hand. “I wish I could have helped.”

  “I know, dear,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. “Maybe it was better that you missed this one, though. You don’t need such sorrow to make you old before your time.”

  “Don’t wish too hard for an apprenticeship at the Dovecote,” Hank added. “It’s a dangerous career with nothing but a few sprites in hand.”

  “I had more than a few sprites beside me, my love,” Trisha said gently. “I was in good company.”

  The third member of their trio was still absent.

  “Where is Garyll?” Tabitha asked.

  “He’s already Garyll, is he?” Her mother smiled wanly. “I’ll speak more about Swordmaster Glavenor later, but he remained in Fendwarrow. He was still searching for some trace of the Shadowcasters when I left. I was little help in that regard.”

  “Come rest your bones while we make you supper,” Hank said, turning them in his arms toward the homestead. “Sword Ayche, come on in for the evening,” he invited over his shoulder. “You’re surely tired and hungry.”

  Ayche was still in the saddle, securing a lead to the reins of Trisha’s mount. “Thank you, Serannon, but I’d like to press on to First Light, truth be told. My missus will be waiting for me.”

  “Of course. Don’t let us delay you then. Appreciate you escorting Trisha safely.”

  Sword Ayche gave Hank a quick salute, and swung his horse back to the trail. The second mare trotted behind him on tired hooves. They were soon lost to view in the trees and gathering dusk.

  * * *

  The meal was a celebration. Simple bread and stew seemed to make a feast, that night. The kitchen was warm from the stove and the joy of reunion.

  When Trisha had absorbed enough of the nourishment, she spoke of her news. “Lillian is a stoic woman, I’ll say that for her. Daran Trench was near to death’s door, and it took me three days to even get a word from him. Never once did Lillian weep for their situation, or ask for sprites for her own pain. She said his pain was greater, and wouldn’t hear any of my sympathies. But she’s clenched so tight, in anger or fear, she won’t speak of that night.”

  “Are they going to stay in Fendwarrow?” Tabitha asked.

  “I tried to get them to move, come and join us on the farm while they search for a new life, but Daran says the ageing of the Dwarrow wine is what he knows, and it’s what he shall do. It was almost as if they were afraid of retribution, should they leave. There is so much fear in that place, dread of the Shadowcasters and the one they call the Darkmaster.”

  “They should leave that place,” said Hank.

  “The other villagers were none too friendly, even when I brought them healing. They seemed to think it would get them into trouble. It’s as if they’ve forgotten how to be gracious.”

  “Too much profit-taking withers the spirit.”

  “Nay, it’s not that. The village is poorer than ever. If there is profit, it’s being bled from Fendwarrow before it reaches the common folk. There’s an ill feeling there. It’s difficult to describe, but it felt as if I was being watched, though I never saw the watcher.”

  “And the other Gifters, did they come to help you?” asked Tabitha.

  “That was a strange thing—they only arrived after three days, when the trail of the Shadowcasters was cold. They’ve stayed to help in the search, but I doubt they’ll find anything.”

  Tabitha was incredulous. “But you sent the Courier. We saw you.”

  “Maybe it got lost, or never arrived,” Trisha said, her voice trailing off. It appeared she had been so absorbed in her work that she hadn’t given the matter much thought. “The Swordmaster sent one of his men to summon the Gifters. Hah! He shook the Swords up something fierce when we got there. I was glad I wasn’t standing in their shoes that morning.” She smiled at her private memory. “That is one fearsome man, Glavenor.”

  “He’s a gentleman too,” Tabitha agreed. “He bought me a drink at the Tooth-and-Tale, even though I had showered him with glass.”

  “Yes, he told me of that. He spoke quite highly of you.” Trisha’s cheeks dimpled. “Seems you made an impression, though I’d be surprised if he forgot the name and face of anyone he’d met.”

  “What did he say?” Tabitha asked, moving to the edge of her seat.

  “Enough for me to know you made an impression,” Trisha said simply, “though little good it will do you, my girl. For all his charm and strength, Glavenor is still the Swordmaster of Eyri, a duty you should never forget.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that! What difference does it make? You’re a Lightgifter, and you married a farmer!”

  Her father said nothing, but Tabitha was suddenly ashamed. It wasn’t like her to speak before she thought. She squeezed her father’s arm, to let him know she hadn’t meant any offence.

  “Just because a man likes the way you sing doesn’t mean he wants your hand,” Trisha said sternly. “I don’t think Glavenor is the marrying kind,” she added.

  “Why?” Tabitha asked, less sure of herself.

  “He puts his duty before his happiness.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “He ran all the way to Fendwarrow, because he thought it would be faster to keep me and Sword Ayche in the saddle.”

  Hank nodded, as if he had expected it. “A better man the King couldn’t find as his hand of justice.”

  “It’s no surprise he’s good,” Trisha said. “You know how harsh the challenge is for those who seek the title of Swordmaster. Only one man can hold that blade in Eyri.”

  “What’s wrong with liking him then?” Tabitha asked.

  “Oh, I don’t blame you, my treasure, he’d set any maiden’s heart aflutter, but I think it will always be his sword he holds tighter than the hand of a woman. Let Glavenor be, unless your paths continue to cross. He has the work of ten men in Fendwarrow alone, and I suspect the task won’t end there.”

  Trisha rested her hands on the table. Tabitha noticed again how haggard her mother was. She set aside her dreaming for a moment.

  “What else happened, mother? There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “It’s not something which telling shall ease, but it’s a burden nonetheless, and it must be told, for you both should know why I must go.”

  “Go?” challenged Hank. “Where? You’ve only just returned. You’re in no condition to travel again.”

  “I know, my love,” Trisha answered, touching Hank’s arm. “But I can’t stay more than a day or two, at most. Not until I am done with this.”

  Trisha reached into the folds of her cloak, and produced a white kerchief, folded many times over. She opened it, delicately, cautious.

  It was empty. An empty white kerchief.

  Tabitha searched her mother’s face for any signs of jest.

  “What?” Tabitha asked. “There’s nothing there.”

  Trisha shook the kerchief gently. Something skittered onto the table-top, making the rolling sound of a spun coin.

  Round, round, round. Drrr.

  It was quiet. Tabitha strained to see what was obviously there. All she could make out was a clearness, a small circle of colourless substance that bent the light but did not reflect it. She reached out her hand to touch it, but her mother caught her in a firm, almost painful grip.

  “What is it?” she asked, surprised by her mo
ther’s strength.

  “This is what the Darkmaster scoured Fendwarrow for. This was his ring. But I found it, before any of his minions did. A stroke of good fortune for the Light.”

  Hank’s brow was deeply furrowed. “Nothing but trouble will come from this, Trisha.”

  “Nothing but trouble already has come from this, my love. I plan to end that trouble, before it preys on more than one poor village.”

  “But why would you want to keep such a thing?”

  “To strike back at him! If it has value to the Darkmaster, then it hurts him to have it gone. Have no fear, I plan to be rid of it. I considered throwing it away many times on the road, allowing it to fall into some deep bog, but I couldn’t risk it. What if the Shadowcasters find it again, what if some innocent finds it? It has some power I do not understand. I think the Darkmaster drew some of his inspiration from it. No, he will not get it back!”

  “Why don’t I take a hammer to it?” Hank offered, reaching for the ring. Trisha stopped his hand.

  “No, my love, it won’t work. I tested it with the largest rock I could lift, and it didn’t show a single mark. I have a better idea. I will travel to Southwind, and take a boat past Stormsford to as close to River’s End as I can. If the ring were to float in a bottle over the falls, it shall not be found again.”

  Tabitha’s gaze was still locked on the ring. She didn’t want to turn away, lest she lose its position and never find it again. The way the light bent through it was fascinating. The longer she looked at it, the more she could see within its clarity. The individual fibres of the table appeared in crisp focus in the middle. The ring’s circumference was outlined by compressed reflections. The ring looked as if it was forged from hammered air, it seemed clearer than clear. It didn’t look like an evil thing; it was quite beautiful, perfect.