And the Lightgifters would leave. Many wise villagers already closed their doors against the visitors. Such folk knew who controlled things in Fendwarrow. Most of them were tightly bound into the web of deals and debt. They didn’t wish to encounter the Darkmaster’s wrath when things returned to normal.
One Lightgifter had departed early, a blonde woman, the one who had arrived with the Swordmaster. She had worked long hours ministering her healing in the house up on End Row. For a moment he had thought that she might have discovered the talisman. Her magic had seemed loud, and strong, as if augmented. But when the other Lightgifters had arrived, he had not been so sure that her sprite-work was unique. Her apparent skill could be due to his unfamiliarity with the Light. He was so used to the motes of Dark essence that anything else was like a trumpet call on a still morning.
He folded another jurrum leaf into his mouth. The first bite was always the best. It sent a shiver of visions down his spine. The future was sweet. He was sure that the Ring was lying unclaimed, somewhere in the village. When the Swordmaster and the others departed, he would retrieve it, and claim his pleasure.
That woman, up on End Row. He remembered kicking down the door, and the triumph of what had come after. The fear had been delicious on her. He wanted to taste it again. She had been healed by the Gifter, just for him to break her. The second time would be even better than the first.
He chewed, and swallowed the juice. He allowed his senses to spread out through the village while his mind lingered on the fantasy. He would have to wait. Many Gifters were in the village, and the Swords scuttled nervously about, driven by the Swordmaster. Maybe tonight, or the next.
A powerful, high-pitched song pierced his receptive ears. He stifled a howl as it jangled his nerves. Even though it sounded as if the woman’s voice came from afar, the jurrum in his veins bubbled in response to the strange power. He was grasped by agonising cramps. The few villagers he could see in the street passed by without showing any reaction to the sound. The aria carried on in his ears, jarring him to the bone, bringing him to his knees. He wrapped motes around his body, but the song penetrated the shroud as if it were no more than a shadow.
It was a spell for sure, unlike any he had sensed before. The pain wasn’t physical—he couldn’t dull the agony by welcoming the pain and turning it into pleasure as the Darkmaster advocated. The spell-song boiled in his blood, plaguing him with horrible sensations, doubts and fears he didn’t need. He struck out at the air, then smashed his fist into the ground instead. Blood welled out from between his fingers. The violence defined him again, it gave him strength and certainty. He was Kirjath Arkell. He was terror.
Yet the song carried on and on, driving through him, making him feel so small, and insignificant, and wrong. It rejected his violence, it dissolved it, as if it contained the essence of peace.
He snarled and forced himself upright.
The music had to be stopped.
He turned his face until the sound came equally into both ears. Straight ahead, to the west. He had been right to suspect the blonde Lightgifter. She had ridden early from Fendwarrow because she had taken the talisman. The song had to be a spell of Light, else it wouldn’t repell him so strongly. Magic, augmented by the power of the Master’s talisman. He winced against the eldritch din. For once, he wished he hadn’t been born so sensitive to magic.
The Gifter lived somewhere near the high hamlet of First Light. He had noted the farm during his recent journey there. For the spell to travel so far meant it was extremely powerful. It rivalled the Darkmaster’s best. He wondered what he would be capable of with that talisman in his hands.
The music ended abruptly, and with it, the effects of the spell disappeared.
It would take a day to reach her.
Kirjath cleared the outer buildings of Fendwarrow and began the trail along the shore. He maintained a long, ground-eating stride. West, where the pinnacle of Fynn’s Tooth stood white against the midday sun, and the Swords were thinly spread. There, just down from the forest and the High Way, he would find his prize.
He smirked.
He might even have the chance to pay a visit to that girl, the darling who had interfered with his child-snatching in First Light. Yes, she would not escape him again. He would find out who she was, where she lived. He spat the jurrum aside, and wiped the spittle off on the back of his sleeve.
First, the Ring. Then the girl. He would decide which of them to return to the Darkmaster.
6. THE DEAD OF NIGHT
“When you can’t find your shadow,
then are you in darkness.”—Zarost
They stood close in the living room. Tabitha’s mother was eager to be off, but she was determined to share the Morningsong with Tabitha and Hank. The red of dawn filled the living room. Tabitha watched the white crystal at her mother’s throat change to pink. A moment later, the sunlight struck the Lightstone directly, and the orb glistened brightly. They waited in silence for the dawn to reach Levin, lower in the basin of Eyri.
Trisha took a breath, then began to sing the Morningsong. Tabitha knew that her mother heard the distant voice of the Assembly in the Dovecote. It was a wonder which could never be shared—she could only see the sparkle in her mother’s eyes and wish that one day she would bear the sensitive crystal orb and hear the faint communion of the Lightgifters herself.
The benediction was familiar, and came easily. They all sang the second verse. Trisha summoned sprites to her hand and guided them to touch her Lightstone.
The essence came from everywhere; between the floorboards, from the rooms nearby, through the front door which stood open to the breeze. Hundreds of faded sprites passed over the Lightstone, dull little sparks. They became bright as they were recharged by the Morningsong. When the song was complete, sprites trailed away from Trisha’s hands like jewelled dust glinting in the air.
The new day was blessed. Trisha’s orb retained its luminescence; a sphere of Light above her heart. She recalled some of the sprites, and they formed a fuzzy cloud around her shoulders.
“You’re not bringing more for the journey?” Hank asked, gently.
“I’ll summon them if I need to, my love,” Trisha answered. “There is always some essence around.”
Hank nodded, then approached Tabitha and held her close.
“Goodbye, treasure. We’ll be back by midweek, for sure. You leave early enough today to reach the Tooth safely. Shepper will be here to care for the animals this evening, and he’ll be here when you return.”
Tabitha felt a sudden chill when her mother kissed her and turned to leave.
“Be careful,” she said. Her mother smiled.
The two horses had already been saddled and loaded with travel-packs. Tabitha’s parents mounted, and trotted the hired steeds from the farmyard. They were fine animals; they must have cost her father dearly. Tabitha leant heavily against the door-post, unable to shake the feeling that it was all unreal.
She waved as they passed through the lower gate, and they returned her farewell. Her parents had departed for River’s End.
There goes the Ring, leaving Eyri.
Why did it feel so sad. Why so untrue?
They shall not reach River’s End? Or they shall lose the Ring?
She couldn’t be sure, but the deeper she probed her intuition, the more certain she became that something was wrong. Her talent for sensing the truth had made her a Truthsayer in First Light. Yet there was an emptiness in that inner place, when she considered her parents.
She wanted to run after her mother with the warning, but the horses were cantering, and had already reached the limits of Phantom Acres. She would never catch them. Besides, she wasn’t entirely certain that there was danger. The hollowness that she felt might herald only the futility of the quest. It might be a reflection of her disappointment, her sense of loss. The Ring had departed with them. There was no chance she would wear it again.
She wished she could reclaim the clarity of tho
ught which the Ring had induced. The day seemed dull, now that the dawn was passed. The sun was smeared across the sky by hastening clouds, and a shadow passed over the farm. She shrugged against the chill, and turned from watching the empty trail.
She busied herself with farm chores. Bread for the evening at the Tooth and Tale. A few candles for the store. She collected the eggs and fed the chickens. After throwing a few bales of fodder to the sheep, there was nothing to do but await the afternoon, when she planned to walk to First Light. Another Friday night, another weekend at the Tooth-and-Tale, a chance to earn her way. She considered departing at once. Time passed too slowly in the silent homestead.
She reached for her lyre, but a small sound made her hesitate. A scrape and thump in the barn, or somewhere nearby, as if something had toppled. Tabitha crossed the floor on tiptoe. She eased the front door open. A gust of wind met her. The yard was empty.
There was scuffling within the barn. A horse snorted and stamped. A solid thump.
“Damn and blast you!”
She recognised her father’s voice. A second later he came out of the barn, clutching his elbow.
“Cursed horse is supposed to be lame.” Hank worked his upper arm with his fingers.
“Father, why –” Tabitha began.
“Horse shied, and backed into a ditch. Stupid thing. I should never have paid so much for it.”
“What did the horse shy for?”
“A shadow amongst the trees, nothing more.”
A cold foreboding brushed Tabitha’s heart.
“What kind of shadow?”
“A shadow, Tabitha.” He held her gaze. “Don’t you have wild fancies on it, now.”
“Where’s Mother?” She couldn’t shake the sense of present danger.
“Calm yourself, treasure. She rode to the neighbours to see if we could borrow another horse for the journey. She’ll be here soon.”
“And the Ring?” Tabitha blurted out.
Her father looked at her strangely, and paused long before answering. “It is safe, with her. Why do you ask?”
“I—I just had a feeling, is all. This morning. That something was going to go wrong.”
“Well, now that it has, it is behind us. We can go on with our task. Here comes your mother now.”
A horse and rider galloped into view. They raced along the crest of the middle-horizon toward Phantom Acres.
Tabitha spoke her thoughts aloud. “Why is she riding so fast?”
Trisha galloped at break-neck speed. A copse of trees obscured her for a moment, then she emerged again, leaning low against the horse’s neck.
A black bird dived from the sky, directly above them. It swooped at the horse’s head, and the stallion swerved, stumbled at a fence, and crashed through the poles. Trisha was thrown to the ground. The horse ran on, through scattering sheep. The big bird climbed, and dived again. It looked like a raven.
Tabitha ran on her father’s heels. Where her mother had fallen was partly in view. Trisha hadn’t moved.
The panic spread to the sheep. They scoured around the limits of their pen. Some found the break in the fence, and they scattered in mindless terror. The raven swooped. Its terrible cry drove the flock before it.
When they came upon her mother, they found Trisha curled up on her side in the long grass. Blood trickled down her temple. Her eyes were closed, and she gave weak, tremulous breaths. Tabitha ran her hands lightly over her body.
“Nothing broken,” she said, meeting her father’s distressed gaze.
Hank stroked Trisha’s hair away from her wound. Despite the blood, the gash was small. Hank scooped his wife up as if she were a lamb.
Tabitha scanned the sky. The black raven was gone. The horse paced in a corner of the field, weaving one way then the other. The sheep were dispersed all about, bleating and milling in knots. Some of the ewes dropped their heads to the turf, the bird and panic already forgotten.
* * *
They laid Trisha on a pallet on the living-room floor. The fire licked through fresh logs in the hearth. She helped her father to clean and dress the wound. Still Trisha slept; her breaths were weaker than ever.
“Can I get the spritesalt from the safe-chamber?” Tabitha asked.
Hank just nodded his assent. The safe-chamber was reserved for her parents’ valuables and as such she had never opened it. Her father sat beside Trisha, her head in his lap. His face was crumbling inwards.
Tabitha knelt at the base of the hearth. The fire was hot against her face, but the hearth-wall was thick, protected from the heat above. She had seen her father work the turn-stone before. She pushed it inwards, and began to twist it.
“Here, let me help,” her father said thickly, his hand suddenly over hers. “Stone will lock if it isn’t turned right.”
He guided Tabitha’s hand, and the turn-stone moved. It kicked outwards against her palm, and Hank drew her hand away. He pulled the stone from the low hearth-wall.
“Mason charged us the earth for this, but she wanted a safe all the same. Ah, Trisha!”
He stood back, his gaze on Trisha.
The vial of Spritesalt was resting close to the mouth of the chamber. Tabitha drew it out carefully. The stopper had only been removed from the vial twice in Tabitha’s memory. It was a highly treasured prize of special potency.
She glanced at her mother’s still form. There could be no question that the Spritesalt was needed. She poured a generous portion into her hand, then spread the balm gently across Trisha’s forehead. The Light faded from the salt as the healing spell was released.
But Trisha remained as pale as milk, and didn’t rouse. Tabitha used more spritesalt. It vanished without effect. Wood cracked in the fire. The room was too warm, and still.
“It’s that Ring,” Hank said, bitterly. “She has borne that tainted talisman too long. We should have been far from here, yet here we are, not even begun. That thing turns fate against us.”
A strange defensiveness awoke within Tabitha.
“Hush, Father. A shying horse, a strange bird, how can they be blamed on a little piece of glass? Nothing has that kind of power.” But speaking of the accident raised a sudden doubt in her mind. A black bird, just like the one that warned the Shadowcaster in First Light.
“Think who the talisman belonged to, and you have your answer,” Hank responded.
“But maybe this is another ring, maybe it isn’t evil. The Shadowcasters couldn’t know that mother has it. It’s invisible.”
“When did you become the expert on it?”
It was a caustic comment, unnatural for her father. They were both behaving strangely under the strain.
Her father’s level gaze bored into her. Her indignation dissolved as her cheeks coloured. Tabitha bit her tongue. It was wiser to be silent.
“Nothing but ill fortune will come from that talisman,” Hank asserted.
That’s not true! It helped me find the words of the Lifesong.
She couldn’t explain to her father how the words had slipped into place when she had worn the Ring, for that would mean admitting she had taken it from her mother’s pocket. She hadn’t forgotten those words.
Her lyre was where she had left it, leaning against her mother’s larger instrument beside the window. The day had turned foul rapidly outside; low clouds poured down from the forests, driven by a fast-approaching storm.
Tabitha hummed a quick scale, running her fingers lightly over the strings. Her father bowed his head over Trisha’s sleeping form. The oblique firelight made his brows appear deeply furrowed, his face more than haggard.
From the first note she played, the Lifesong filled her, almost overwhelmed her. She held on to the words of the stanza she knew. The lyrics offered the solid certainty that she felt when she spoke as the Truthsayer; they felt right. She sang louder than she had intended. It was a glorious release. The room was filled with the wonder of music.
She experienced the sounds as if they formed a river and she was trail
ing her fingers upon its rippled surface. She could sense other themes passing by beneath the simple melody she played, other currents within the liquid flow of the song.
The Lifesong thrummed in the wood of her lyre as if the instrument was alive, quivering. The air cleared around her. Trisha seemed to shimmer in sympathy with Tabitha’s notes, as her body responded to the song. Tabitha imaged that the music was rippling through every living fibre, releasing the curse of her mother’s condition. She sang, pouring love into her song.
The stanza came to an end. Tabitha’s voice tailed off.
Trisha stared up at Tabitha with a look of deep wonder. She was awake! A log collapsed gently in the hearth. Hank breathed a sigh of relief. Finally her mother spoke, in a weak, clear voice.
“That song, that song! You have found the healing verse.”
“It was the dream-song, the Lifesong. You remember? I learned the words.”
Her mother’s awed gaze was difficult to hold.
“You—called me back,” Trisha said. She smiled, then winced suddenly, and touched her head. “Oh, oh oh. It’s the drunkard’s best headache I’ve earned myself. How did I do this?”
“You don’t remember?” asked Hank, pulling her close in a gentle bear’s embrace.
“I remember the horse bolting. I fell?”
“On your fair head.” He kissed her temple where she had wounded herself.
“That I can heal. Oh, thank you, Tabitha, you brought me back from a very cold place.” Trisha shifted gently from Hank’s arms. She summoned sprites from where they played in the fire. They were dull, having paled since dawn, yet they would hold enough Light for Trisha’s spell. She wove them into a pattern between her hands, layer upon layer of flickering particles, bonded by her thought and the words of the Healall spell. Tabitha knew the words, but without the Lightstone and the mental training of the Dovecote, she had no command over the sprites. Her mother raised the delicate net of Light to her head. For a moment Trisha looked like a queen with a crown of sparks. The essence sank into her hair and disappeared.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 9
