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

by Greg Hamerton

She felt herself being drawn forward, as if the circlet was gathering a part of her.

  “What does it feel like to touch?” she asked her mother.

  Trisha gave her a sharp look. “It is as cold as a midwinter’s frost. I’ll not hold it for long, lest I find a hook hidden within it.” Trisha lifted it carefully from the table between finger and thumb. Tabitha was fascinated by it, she wanted to touch it, to feel it, to take it from her mother.

  Trisha dropped the clear ring into the kerchief, and folded it away. Tabitha tried to hide her disappointment as she watched the package return to the pocket of her mother’s cloak.

  Trisha was consumed by a giant yawn. “It’s a wonder that I found it, on the doorstep of Fendwarrow’s inn—it pressed up beneath my boot. I’ll be glad to be rid of it. I need a while to recover, but then I must make haste to Southwind.”

  “Not another word,” Hank said, and shushed his wife with a kiss. “To bed, and to sleep. You can make plans tomorrow, and I can see to getting a hand for the farm. This time I’ll come with you.”

  Trisha smiled wearily as she was led from the room. Tabitha padded along in her wake, after blowing out the lamps. She tried to imagine what kind of substance it could be, that could withstand the crushing weight of a rock, yet remain unblemished. She wondered what hand could craft such a perfect glass, without flaw or facet to reflect the light. She wanted to know what it felt like to touch. Just once, before it was gone from Eyri forever. Something that beautiful couldn’t be so bad.

    

  It took until noon on the following day to get her chance. Tabitha slipped out of the kitchen door, and tiptoed past the back of the homestead.

  She had waited a long time for her mother to fall properly asleep. She had played all of the lullabies she knew, and had ended with nearly an hour of improvisation on her lyre. It would surely be another day before Trisha attempted to travel again. Her mother had looked tired enough to sleep through a thunderstorm, but ever since Tabitha had arisen, Trisha had been awake.

  During her singing, Tabitha had positioned herself on a chair in the corner of the bedroom, beside the cloak at the door. Her curiosity had plagued her. Whenever she thought her mother was deep in slumber, she had tried to reach for that nearby pocket, but every time, Trisha had been roused, tossing in her sleep before settling into the covers once more. It was as if her mother sensed her wilful thoughts and tried to warn Tabitha against what she was going to do. But at last, her mother drifted off, unable to protect what might be stolen from her own room.

  Tabitha tried to convince herself that it was just borrowing, not stealing. She was just going to have a look. She’d return it straight away. Her hand slid into the cloak. She found the pocket, and the folded kerchief within. She could feel the hard shape of the ring through the fabric. She took it, and fled from the house.

  High in the meadow behind the homestead was a single silken tree. A wind-chime dangled from one of the spreading boughs, tinkling in the breeze. The air was always full of sprites here, dancing in and out of the fluttering white leaves. It was one of her favourite places—open to the sky, well clear of the dark forest behind. Anyone who approached from the farm would be seen labouring up the hill toward her. Tabitha set her lyre down beside her, and sat on the grass at the bole of the tree.

  Tabitha breathed out slowly. She was safe, she told herself, safe and alone. Mother was still asleep. Father had left for the neighbouring farms long ago, to see about a caretaker for Phantom Acres—a guardian for the farm and for Tabitha. She had already learned that she would not be going on the journey to River’s End.

  What if the ring really is bad? she wondered.

  Just a peek, and I’ll put it back.

  She laid the kerchief on her lap, and folded it open. She told herself that the trembling in her hands was because of the sudden breeze. The ring glistened in the sunlight, like a circle of clear water supported, unbroken, upon the white fabric.

  When she first touched it, pain shot into her fingertip. She jerked her hand away. Her mother was right. The ring was as cold as ice.

  And yet it had left a thrill in her blood. It wasn’t bad, or evil, or dangerous—it had just given her a sudden sting of cold. She wanted to touch it again; she couldn’t keep her hand away from it. The jolt came again, but this time it felt good, energizing, exciting, like the charge in a thunderstorm. She lifted the ring off the kerchief, testing its hard edge between finger and thumb.

  The initial chill faded, and was gone.

  She dropped it into her palm. It was lighter than a feather, yet it felt solid and strong. Its surface was so smooth it could have been polished with silk. She turned it over and over in her hand, marvelling at the feel. It was perfect, no blemish or scratch marred its surface.

  It was growing warm.

  A thrill of anticipation wriggled down her spine. She raised the middle finger of her right hand and slipped the ring on. It fit her finger snugly, and yet it seemed to slide around the base of her finger, circling continuously like a restless snake.

  The world brightened around her, in an expanding circle, as if a cleansing wind passed away from her and had cleared a haze from the air. The sweep of grass below her took on a different appearance, each individual blade seemed washed and sharp. The walls of the homestead became detailed, whereas before they had been blurred by distance. She could see the wood-grain of the kitchen door clearly. It was the strangest sensation. If she wanted to inspect the door, it seemed crisp, but if she relaxed her interest in it, it seemed to fade again.

  The trees, all the way over the rise, all the way across the high ground to the southern peaks, they were all a richer green than she’d ever noticed, each a subtly different shade to the others. The sky was a deeper blue. The clouds were tumbled by the upper winds like fresh foam.

  The ring was warm on her finger.

  Something else had changed, beside the visual clarity, but it took her a few moments to understand what it was. She smelt the faint traces of the wood-smoke from the homestead, the feathery warmth of the chickens, the freshness of the fields—so many faint things were intensified. She heard the distant bleating of the sheep as if they were beside her.

  Sounds, smells, sights; she could focus her attention upon any detail. She felt her awareness become startlingly clear. Even her thoughts, her memories were becoming more distinct.

  As the fogginess in her mind cleared, something which had been hidden for many days emerged. She could remember the words of the dream-song! She wanted to sing, before she lost the strange awareness or forgot the moment altogether. Her hands reached for the lyre. She struck the first chord without thinking. She had practised the tune enough—it was the words she had longed to find, and now she knew them, she could feel them, as if they were sculpted from solid sound. The vibration of the lyre ran through her body. Tabitha rejoiced in the resonance.

  She lifted her clear voice to the sky, and sang.

  Sing high from your heart with courage,

  and sing with true faith in your eye.

  Sing high with elation, to all of Creation;

  before the soft echoes die.

  All Life comes as grace from another,

  all Life can be taken away,

  so share your new wishes out wisely,

  there might come an end to your day.

  Share all your wishes so wisely,

  for Life echoes the music you play.

  The words were shaped for the music; they joined in a seamless harmony. Every word resonated in the deep way that she recognised from the ascent-note of the Glee of Genesis—a power that touched the world around her. She imagined that she saw a strange clarity rush away from her, down the slope, past the homestead, through the fields below—it could have been the tears of joy forming in her eyes. The strings of the lyre hummed after each plucked note. She sang with all her heart, and she was lost for a timeless moment to the flow of creation.

  The words ended as quickly
as they had begun. Only one stanza, yet that was all she knew from the dream. Silence descended like a blanket, wrapping her in warm fulfilment.

  She set the lyre in her lap. Her pulse was racing, her mind was alight. The singing left her with a glow, as if the sun had been right inside her heart. She gazed over fences of Phantom Acres, and the fields beyond, and felt a part of all the land. Her song had unusual lyrics, yet they had been the right words, without a doubt. She wondered if they had been sung before, or if she was the first.

  A powerful song; one to cherish, and practice, and sing again. If she could impart a fraction of what she had felt in the singing, her audience in the King’s Challenge would surely be spell-bound. She wished for a parchment and quill, or tablet and knife; anything to record the lyrics. Yet she knew in the same moment that she would never forget the song.

  The dream-song. The Lifesong, a name which rang with the certainty of truth.

  A distant figure was travelling up the road toward the farm. Her sight was sharper than ever. She recognised the long stride of her father, though she doubted he could see her from so far away.

  She suddenly realised the consequences of being discovered. The ring! She was wearing it!

  She found its clear surface, and pulled at it. It seemed to clutch ever tighter to her finger.

  Off, off! It must come off! It must be replaced before Father returns.

  Her finger was too dry, the ring’s grip too tight. She ran her tongue along its upper edge.

  Wham! ... fizz. The world was gone.

  She lay on her back. A tree stretched over her, reaching to the sky beyond, its white leaves fluttering.

  She remembered nothing, at first. The grass was cool beneath her. A breeze brushed wisps of hair across her face. As her awareness slowly returned, she realised how blank her mind had been—emptied of thought, vacant, stunned. She remembered to breathe. She was Tabitha Serannon.

  For an instant, she had lost it all.

  Her mouth was filled with a sharp, numbing taste.

  Then it all came rushing back. She jerked upright. Her father strode toward the farm. He was a quarter league away.

  She clutched the Ring tight. Her finger had been moistened by her tongue, and when she pulled again, the Ring slid free. A horrible emptiness swept over her. She had ended a special moment, she had lost something precious when she’d taken the ring off.

  Father was coming!

  She centred it quickly in the kerchief—that clear, glistening, beautiful thing. The world had emptied of all its richness, her life would be so dull without it. Oh, to fold it away was sadder than ever. Yet she knew that it had to be returned before her mother woke and searched the pockets of her cloak.

  Tabitha hastened toward the homestead. Her father would reach the home after her, but not by a great margin.

  The ring. It was a wonderwork, a thing of beauty, strange and powerful. It didn’t deserve to lie in the foam of River’s End, cast forever from the realm of Eyri as her mother planned.

  Her mother wouldn’t let her keep it. It belonged to the Darkmaster, didn’t it? It was dangerous, evil.

  How could she ever tell her mother what she had felt. The wonder of it. The clarity.

  But I’ll never touch it with my tongue again, she decided. That clarity had been too intense.

  She reached the kitchen door and sneaked into the house. The stairs creaked softly underfoot as she climbed to her mother’s bedroom. She stood for a time in the doorway, holding the kerchief. Trisha was still asleep. Tabitha imagined that the ring had grown cold again, colder than ever. She yearned to draw it from the kerchief and feel it warm under her hand, to slip it on and experience the world in that wondrous way.

  Heavy footsteps shook the house from the front stair.

  “I wish I could keep you,” Tabitha whispered. She kissed the folded kerchief. Finally, she slipped it into the pocket of her mother’s cloak beside the door.

  “Hullo, dear,” came Trisha’s voice from the bed. “Have I been sleeping long?”

  Tabitha froze. Her mother propped herself up against her pillows. Had she seen her?

  Trisha blinked with owl-like vacancy. She rubbed her eyes.

  Tabitha breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Her mother had seen nothing.

  “Sleeping? Not long. Not long at all.”

  * * *

  When Twardy Zarost heard the song, he halted at once. He was in the marketplace of Flowerton. People jostled him, grumbling at his obstruction, but he gave them no heed. He stood with his palms turned to the sky, revelling in the ancient aria, grinning like a Merryfest melon. He was hearing a higher sound, a song he knew the villagers couldn’t hear, for it came from far away to the south, probably even as far away as Meadowmoor County. He mouthed silent words at the noonday sun, and swayed upon the cobbled street, dancing to the enigma. His hat did its best to cling to his head.

  The song ended after a few verses.

  Only one stanza of the Lifesong. A pity it was not more, but it was enough. It was a start, a great start. The biggest explosion in the universe was in the beginning. He dropped his attention from the sky to the bustle of the market.

  It was high time to leave Flowerton. He slipped from the crowd.

  He soon reached Horse and the cart, and used the orchards to cover his passage from the town. It would be better that no one remembered which way he had departed.

  They rode fast, for the load was light. Only one barrel remained of what he had hauled from Ravenscroft, one he had been keeping for a little tavern in Levin, on the return. It wouldn’t matter if he sold it someplace else, he decided.

  The air was scented with the first eager spring buds. Three weeks until the month of Bloomtide, when the boughs would be thick with colourful fragrance. For now, the land was mostly green punctuated by the grey-brown trees, and the low white stones of the occasional stacked wall. They joined the traffic on the road to Fig Tree well clear of Flowerton.

  The Lifesong had been sung. The fair voice had come from the south, not the east. He knew who it was. The young woman who had sung the Shiver in the tavern contest, the Lightgifter’s daughter from First Light. It had to be.

  Her sudden power could only mean one of two things—he had not recognised her ability at all, or the Ring had moved, and she had used it. For either path, he had a pressing duty. The Lifesong was a great spell, it would be a beacon for those who coveted power. Others within Eyri might have sensed the singer, just as he had sensed her distant call. They would be drawn to the source like thieves to gold. He would be needed, if only to warn of the danger.

  Oh, he had been too late for fair sister Syonya. So long ago in Oldenworld, in their merchant-house in Kaskanzr, before he’d even ventured to the Three Kingdoms, yet the memory burned like molten lead, heavy and hot. Her blood on the red-stone tiles, in the room that overlooked the sea. Oh Syonya! He had been so young; he had believed in the Philosophers of Kaskanzr then, in their high moral principles and their puritanical cause. By the blazes! He had been rising in stature amongst them. But her beautiful song had brought forbidden magic with it, it had been branded as heresy. Her defiance made a mockery of the men who had outlawed her. While Zarost had argued her case in the Moothouse, she had been silenced.

  Zarost had not gone quietly into the wilderness. They had paid in blood for their horrendous crime. Zarost had not enjoyed the retribution, but he had cried out his sister’s name aloud upon each death. Such vengeance was not a solution, it was merely a stronger flavour of failure—he had learned the bitter taste of it. His father’s house had been ruined. Syonya was forever dead. Fair Syonya, oh my sister, oh!

  He gritted his teeth.

  No, he would find the singer before the others did.

  Zarost hoped that the Darkmaster didn’t search for his Riddler prematurely—he was only expected in Ravenscroft by the end of the week. It was important that he was not followed on this journey, more important than ever before.

  “Come on, Hor
se,” he said, flicking the reins, “we have a long way to go, and a short time to do it in.”

  Horse improved on her quick trot. The cart wheels spun swiftly over the hard-packed earth.

  “Were it not for the Riddler’s Oath, we could be there a lot quicker,” he added. But he had worked and waited for too long to cast the chance of success aside through a moment’s indulgence. The first flower of a new spring had revealed itself. Twardy Zarost was determined to see it endure.

  “May time pass as slowly for the others as it does for us,” he wished aloud. Horse tossed her head. The day sped by to the rhythmic measure of hoofbeats.

    

  Kirjath Arkell kept to the shadows amongst the buildings in Fendwarrow. The village reeked of Lightgifters. Their spells were undoing the fine work which had been layed down over months. Fear was being tainted with new hope, oppression was being washed away with relief, pain dissolved with healing. He even heard somebody laugh as they passed by in the dirty sunlit street.

  He spat the stale jurrum out, and cursed.

  It was all such a waste of sprites, that empowered essence which could have been turned to the Dark. It was the Swordmaster’s fault; without him, there would be no need for caution. The Gifters wouldn’t be here, and Kirjath wouldn’t need to hide.

  One rancorous thought led to another. If the Ring hadn’t been lost, none of this wastage would be happening. The Darkmaster had made a mistake; he was losing his edge, growing old and cretinous. The Master expected Kirjath to find the Ring, but it was ridiculous. With all the Lightgifters around, he couldn’t isolate any new magic which might alert him of the talisman’s discovery.

  The village was full of Light essence, full of the touch of Gifters. Their magic was everywhere the same, all sickening and inept. They spread dependancy, offering it in the disguise of strength and health. Do-gooders. Lifting people from despair and making them all the weaker for it. As soon as the Gifters left, the false crutch would be taken from the Fendwarrens, and the people would be defenceless against the return of Darkness.