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

by Greg Hamerton

  “We should slow,” Father Keegan called out, angrily. It was the first word to break the sweaty silence of hours.

  “I’ll decide when we have need, Father Keegan,” Rosreece replied over his shoulder. He kept his horse a few strides ahead of the others. “I am leading!”

  “You’ll run the horses into the ground,” Keegan shouted at the younger Gifter, “then where will we be? These are not the horses of the King’s Sword, for heaven’s sake man! These are Dovecote nags.”

  The horses defied Keegan’s pronouncement by continuing to canter, but Ashley knew his mount was tiring. They had been driven too long by the severe pace of the lead-horse. Rosreece reined back a little to argue with Keegan.

  “We must race,” he said. “We have a Shadowcaster to catch, or worse. Do you doubt Hosanna’s vision?” His eyes seemed to glint in the sun.

  “I doubt your wisdom, Rosreece,” Keegan snarled. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and bear-like, easily stronger than Rosreece and senior to him. But the Rector had defined the pecking order otherwise, and Ashley doubted that Keegan would defy that command.

  Rosreece did not slacken his pace. They were carried along by his urgency.

  Ashley’s bottom ached from the hard ride. He wondered how the others found the strength to endure it. Hosanna seemed to be managing on her roan stallion, but behind him, Sister Grace was gripping the pommel of her saddle for dear life. She would surely need a rest, if only to let her wide eyes close for a while. She rode with a stiff-legged posture that gave her no respite from the choppy stride of her small horse.

  Ashley wished he could help her. He resolved to speak up, but when he turned to face Rosreece, the Gifter met him with a fierce glare. Ashley held his tongue.

  The way became tougher as they climbed from the oat-fields that surrounded Turnmill. The soil became harder, and the road began to wind in tight zigzags, cutting higher into the hills; pastureland, dotted with sheep, the farmsteads sparsely placed. They had to wait while a heavy-laden cart from Tarbarn nudged its way down a narrow pass. The forest loomed ahead, a wall of planted quickpines which butted against the older oaks of the Great Forest beyond. Rosreece shouted the advance as soon as the way was clear. The horses strained up the steep incline, snorting and lathered with sweat. Then they were on the flat again, and galloping.

  It happened as they passed the first of the old trees. Ashley felt his mare shudder, then with a surprised squeal she fell over a tangle of roots and crashed to the ground. Ashley was flung onto the hard-packed earth, behind the pounding hooves of Father Keegan’s mount.

  He came up spitting dirt. His elbows were bruised, his forehead heavily grazed. His mare stumbled to her feet, and limped off a few steps down the road.

  Keegan called a halt immediately. Ashley didn’t hear if Rosreece made any comment.

  “You all right?”

  Ashley nodded.

  Father Keegan dismounted with knotted brows, and stooped to inspect the injured mare. “She’s been made lame,” he said angrily, facing down Rosreece.

  “We shall ride on to First Light,” Rosreece said, looking down at the elder Lightgifter from the vantage of his saddle. “The boy can walk his horse to Llury, and return to the Dovecote tomorrow.”

  Ashley ground his teeth at being called a boy, but he felt dazed and not a bit foolish from the fall. Rosreece seemed a lot taller, mounted on his horse.

  Father Keegan clenched his fists. “We will walk on to Llury. Together. I’ll not be leaving a Half-knot in the woods alone, considering what we are sent to investigate. Our horses could do with the rest.”

  “You forget yourself, Father Keegan. I was ordained leader of this quest, by the Rector Shamgar. You may have led quests before, but not this time.”

  “We will walk,” repeated Father Keegan, his fury contained under a slow, even tone. “Ashley, lead your horse for a while. Sister Grace, join us now.”

  She’s probably ready to fall from the saddle, Ashley thought grimly.

  “Hosanna –” started Keegan.

  “No!” Rosreece cut in, through Keegan’s command. “We ride, Hosanna. If these weaklings want to rest, so be it. But they will fail the Light, as surely as they will arrive too late. I will see the Shadowcaster captured, and the disaster averted.”

  A brief glance was exchanged between Rosreece and Hosanna. She looked to the others, then wrenched her gaze away. Hosanna spurred her stallion into a gallop beside Rosreece, and they plunged into the gloom of the forest.

  Father Keegan stared after the retreating pair of Lightgifters. “An unfair twist to the bond of lovers,” he said.

  “Rosreece and Hosanna are lovers?” Ashley asked incredulously. He saw that Sister Grace shared his disbelief.

  Keegan was determined. “Very discreet, I’ll grant you, but one has to be within the Dovecote. I don’t know what she sees in the man, he is all arrogance, and no heart.” He gripped his saddle and vaulted up to it. “Now we can set a proper pace. Come, let us move while there is light to this day.”

  The three of them set off; Father Keegan scanned the shadows, Grace rode stiffly in her saddle, and Ashley led his lame mare on foot.

  He spent much of that afternoon mulling over likely couples within the Dovecote. He began to feel increasingly naive. At one twist in the trail he encountered Sister Grace’s eyes on him, and he blushed fervently, more for the thoughts he had been entertaining than for any speculation in her gaze.

  Ashley doubted that Rosreece would reach First Light before the tail end of the following morning. The Gifter’s extravagant haste glared back at them from every hoof-print they passed on the road to Llury. Rosreece and Hosanna maintained a long stride. They would be fatigued when they reached their destination, too fatigued to deal with any real threats. And because of the clash of personalities, the quest was already divided in two. They were all the weaker for it.

  The Rector couldn’t have selected a worse group for the task.

  9. FRIENDS AND FIENDS

  “When do you know someone through and through?

  When you cease to surprise them,

  or they cease to surprise you?”—Zarost

  Tabitha woke, but lay quite still. She smelled fresh linen. Something soft pressed against her cheek. She dared to open her eyes. A bedroom with a thick-beamed ceiling enclosed her. Russet carpets lay beside the bed. The windows were shuttered, admitting only a sliver of light. The sounds of the street outside were muffled. A horse snorted. Two voices were engaged in conversation. The words were indistinct at first, but the voices were rising.

  “Then you can tell me the moment she wakes.” A man’s voice, vibrant and vaguely familiar. “I must see her, for goodness sakes!”

  “Not now you won’t,” answered a stern woman.

  “Later better not be too late, In’madam. It better not be too late.”

  The horse whinnied, then hooves clicked away across a cobbled street.

  She sat up gingerly in the strange bed. Rumpled blankets covered her legs. Her forehead itched, and she raised a hand to scratch, but her fingers met with fabric. A bandage was bound around her head.

  Bandage?

  She frowned. A pale brown tunic of lambs-wool covered her, soft and loose. I was wearing a dress, a blue dress and woollen jacket, when -

  A sudden forgetfulness came over her, a welcome mist. She concentrated on her surroundings. The room smelled clean, of warmth and wood polish. A small fire burned in a hearth. Her blue dress and woollen jacket hung over the back of a heavy chair. She recognised the room.

  The Tooth-and-Tale. I’m in the village.

  A gentle knock at the door, then it swung inwards.

  Lyndall Quilt entered. Her usually carefree expression was drawn. Tabitha seemed to see everything about her, too clearly, she noticed a hundred little details. Lyndall’s blond plait needed to be tidied. She had missed a button a third of the way down her jacket, and there was a faint stain of mead on the toe of her leather boot. And all tho
se freckles on her forearm, had they been there before?

  Tabitha closed her eyes to block it all out.

  Lyndall drew a breath, and Tabitha heard every whisper of the inhalation. There was no way to escape it. She wanted to be asleep again.

  “I was so worried about you, coming in so pale like that,” Lyndall said. “I thought you’d caught the death of cold. What happened, Tee?” Lyndall plopped down next to Tabitha, making the bed creak in surprise.

  Tabitha’s stomach turned. She wanted to forget for a moment longer.

  “Not yet,” she whispered.

  Lyndall hugged her, and said nothing.

  “How did I get here?” Tabitha asked, when they parted.

  Lyndall looked surprised. “The Riddler brought you to us this morning. You thanked him, don’t you remember? Before we popped you into bed. What happened to you, last night? You missed your shift in the bar. We got worried when no word was sent.”

  “The Riddler. Who’s the Riddler?”

  “The funny man with the floppy hat. Twardy Zarost. Surely you can’t have forgotten him? He’s a laugh!”

  Now that she thought about it, there had been a face, brown and weathered like smooth bark, a bearded man peering down at her.

  Lyndall laid her hands on Tabitha’s arm. Her touch was warm, her skin smelled of soap, and there were rough calouses in two places on each of her hands. Too sensitive, she was aware of too many details. The forgetfullness in her mind threatened to clear. A memory rose up, a night that would not be forgotten.

  Lyndall looked worried. “Are you feeling all right?”

  The cold snow, the running, the dark forest. Phantom Acres.

  “What happened, Tee?” Lyndall was so full of concern for her, so caring. Tabitha could feel her defences crumbling.

  “He came to the farm, Lyndall, because of my song, because of me, he fought with her, and Dad fell, and I think they both lost, Lyn, I think he k-killed them! Because of me!”

  “Oh Tabitha. Oh my dear dear friend!”

  Tabitha clung to Lyndall’s shoulder as the memory overwhelmed her. Lyndall rocked her, on and on, as Tabitha purged her terror with her tears.

  Later, Tabitha gazed numbly over Lyndall’s shoulder. The fire had burned low in the hearth. Gone, her parents were gone. In one dark night. She felt hollow and cold, as if she was made of only skin and emptiness.

  “We should summon the Sword at once, Tabitha. The murderer should be tracked down.”

  Tabitha pulled away, and looked at Lyndall on the level. “He was a Shadowcaster.”

  Her friend looked aghast. “Again, so close to First Light? But how can that be!”

  “He came to reclaim something taken from Fendwarrow.” Tabitha dropped her gaze to the blankets. She found a detached place in her awareness which helped to dull the pain. “He’s still out there.”

  The images of the night flickered through her mind. Slate-grey eyes, streaked with yellow. Hullo, pretty.

  Lyndall stood up rapidly. “I’ll come back. I think mother needs to hear of this. She’ll know what to do.” She crossed the room. “What if he comes here? This, this murderer!” She opened the door, and was gone.

  Shadowcaster. The word seemed to fill the room with cold for a moment, driving away the warmth of the fire. Tabitha shivered. An evil man, with the stalking movements of a predator. He had wanted the Ring. Her mother had fought to the death to prevent him, to keep the Ring away from the Darkmaster. And now Tabitha had it.

  Take this. Run.

  Tabitha slid off the bed, balancing for a moment on her unsteady legs. She hadn’t realised how weak she was.

  Her woollen jacket was draped over the chair near the fire. She searched the pocket and found the soft, crumpled kerchief. She traced her fingers over the smudged remains of her mother’s scrawled missive. There was more writing scrawled inside the kerchief.

  Legacy in chamber. Know I love you.

  Legacy. The word was too heavy to bear.

  Oh, Mother, you knew it, yet still you fought. Is this a thing of such power, that you died to keep it from them?

  She held her hand up to the fire. The Ring was invisible in the dim light, yet she could feel its smoothness at the base of the middle finger on her right hand. It was cool and slippery when she touched it with her fingers. She was sure it had been warm only a moment ago. She tried to pull it off, but it would not be dislodged, having tightened its grip with the cooling, no doubt.

  The unbearable richness of sensations had faded as well. She was only aware of the lambent warmth of the fire, and the cold aching knowledge of her loss.

  * * *

  Some time later, there was a knocking on her door. Tabitha rose slowly from the bed. She remembered opening the windows and shutters at some time, then closing them against the chill of evening. Lyndall had banked the fire for her. The room was warm. Nothing really mattered, everything was distant again. People had come and people had gone, and she was left the same.

  There had been Mrs Quilt, full of matronly sympathy. She had given Tabitha a pair of grey woodsman’s trousers to wear while her dress was drying. The trousers were small enough to be comfortable. Then there had been old Steed, the greying Captain of the local Sword. He had responded with gruff indignation to the news. He had promised that a commando would be assembled, to depart at dawn. They would search for the criminal. If there was murder, Steed promised to see the King’s justice enacted. The Shadowcaster would not walk free.

  The Captain’s statement had lacked complete conviction, as if he considered her story might be a troubled fantasy. She had no proof other than what she felt. Her parents had been alive when she had fled.

  The knocking came again. Tabitha realised she must have sat down, despite her intentions. Her mind was wandering, far away. She rose from the bed again. She reached the door and opened it with a reflexive question.

  “Who is it?”

  She already had the door wide open. Tabitha froze. A strange man stood in the hallway, a spry figure with olive-brown skin and a jutting beard of black and white. On his head perched a brown-striped hat.

  “Supper,” the stranger identified himself, proferring two heavily laden plates. He bowed from the waist. His eyes held a twinkle.

  Tabitha fumbled for words as her wariness faded. The smile on his lips was geniune.

  “You’re, you’re ... the Riddler?”

  “Twardy Zarost. Other folk I’ve tried to be, but I’m not them, and they aren’t me.” He raised an eyebrow suggestively, and offered the plates once more. “Shall we eat inside, or will two plates of the Tooth-and-Tale’s best fill my belly alone?”

  The aroma of cooked food, softened by a gravy, and freshened with steaming vegetables, came through the door. The plates were huge, they looked as if they held a feast. She wasn’t sure if she could find her appetite, but she felt a sudden urge to talk to the Riddler. Funny, a moment ago she had wanted to be left alone. She retreated into her room.

  The Riddler followed.

  He was odd. His clothes were outlandish, or of a style that had long since passed from fashion. The leather boots were standard enough, though the tips curved upwards like cheeky snouts. His purple trousers billowed loosely. The black robe ended uncommonly at his thighs, and was belted at his waist with a fraying sash. Slightly grubby white cuffs protruded from the robe at his wrists.

  Tabitha took him to the small oak table beside the fireplace. She was thankful for the easy silence which Twardy Zarost assumed. He devoured a good portion of Mrs Quilt’s cooking before meeting her speculative gaze. He spread his leathery hands.

  “I am sorry for your loss, young Tabitha. Your friend Lyndall told me about your parents.”

  Tabitha flinched, and set her unused fork back on the plate. She resisted the rising sorrow, but the pressure was insistent.

  Anything, anything but that! That’s why I wanted your company, to take my mind elsewhere.

  She had to avoid a show of weeping before the new
comer. It seemed important to keep her poise in his presence. She couldn’t afford to come apart at the seams.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “How? By horse, and a cart.” Twardy Zarost held her eyes with a steady gaze, his face impassive.

  Tabitha’s mood darkened. His humour was ill-timed.

  “Questions do funny things with answers, questions do.” Twardy speared a small potato with his fork, twiddling it through a patch of cheesy sauce before popping it into his mouth.

  Tabitha took a deep breath.

  Can’t the silly man see I want to cry? She didn’t want to play his games. But his challenge gave her a spark of anger, and she felt her tears recede a little.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mister Zarost, you are strange in these parts. What were you doing on this stretch of the High Way?”

  “Mister is another’s name, my name is Twardy,” he said in his rolling, musical way. “I’ve been here before, but not to be noticed. I seldom come here, because there’s nothing to do. If you don’t mind me saying so.” His laughter tumbled like water through sunlit rocks. “But it sounds as if something happened here last night. I was travelling the High Way towards you, and you came towards me. Our paths crossed, you could say. And now, they’re all tangled up.”

  He was still being evasive, but he was the man who had brought her in from the cold, after all. Her irritation faded as she remembered her manners.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For saving me.”

  “Not so. I cannot do that.”

  “I’m warm. I’m fed. I would have died. You saved me.”

  “Ah, but what of the fellow who followed us to this village? I cannot protect you from him.”

  Tabitha’s blood ran cold. “W-what fellow?”

  “Black cloak and orb are the marks of Shadowcasters, yes? He was one of those, but he’s burnt like a roasted potato. Bad at hiding too, for I saw him many times today, though the villagers see him not.”