“He’s here, in First Light?”
The sickening smile, the eyes of slate. Clouds of midnight cold about his shoulders. Her father fell to the floor. Tabitha could hardly draw a breath. What happened at the farm, that he was burned?
“I don’t remember him being scarred,” she said, grasping for hope. “Maybe it’s—another.”
“The way he watches your room, I’d say he’s a stalker. He doesn’t seem the kind to leave empty handed. You are in danger until he gets what he is looking for. You have it with you?”
Tabitha stared at the Riddler.
“The Ring? How do you know about the Ring?”
“Ah, so you know that’s what it is. That is good. Be careful of speaking so openly of it, for many would like to own such a thing.”
“You know of it?”
“The Ring is a different thing to different people. Do you have the Ring with you then, that he follows you so?” Twardy Zarost leaned towards Tabitha, suddenly intent.
She felt awkward under his altered gaze. Surely he couldn’t have noticed the clear band on her finger—it was invisible in the dim light. Her right hand went to her trouser pocket, where she could hide it. She shook her head.
A painful cold lanced through her finger. Things were progressing too fast. The effort of conversing with the Riddler was tiring her, trying to puzzle the meaning in his words. Already he seemed to know too much. She didn’t want him guessing that she wore the Ring, and couldn’t get it off.
“My mother, before she died, she hid it.” Again, the unbearable cold from the Ring. She tried to finish with a neutral comment. She had never been much good at lying. “I know where it is. But why is it so important?”
The Riddler fidgeted in his chair, and spread his hands wide as if to say he had no idea. His brown eyes held a hungry look.
“Where is it?”
“In a chamber in –” Tabitha gasped. The Ring was a blade of ice, threatening to sever her finger. With sudden dread and clarity, she understood something about the talisman.
She could not lie, while she wore the Ring. It made the compulsion of her Truth-sense clear and commanding.
“Somewhere that I know of,” she said. A vague warmth penetrated her finger around the Ring. “That’s all I’m telling,” she ended hastily, folding her arms across her chest. She was not going to be backed into a corner again by the Riddler.
Twardy Zarost laughed. His grin was so wide and geniune it was difficult to imagine he had seemed threatening only moments before.
“You have the makings of a fine Riddler, Tabitha Serannon. It will be good to see what you become in time. I do know that you bear the Ring.” His eyes held a joyous glint.
“How do you know?” she whispered. Her hand was still firmly ensconced in her pocket. He couldn’t have seen the Ring when her hand had been free.
It was invisible, she told herself.
“The Ring you bear is one of great power. And so, those who know what they speak of, call it the Wizard’s Ring. It is my business to be close to it. I have promised to see the Ring taken to the wizard whom it was made for. Never fear, I won’t steal it from you, but I must guide you and the Ring to the wizard. That is my task, that is why I am here.”
“The Ring must be returned,” stated Tabitha, a little disappointed.
“Re-turned, yes.” He pronounced the word strangely.
“So the Ring is not something evil?”
“Evil or good, that is always something you choose for yourself.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“The path to the wizard is always dangerous. That is the path you shall need to follow. You will lose the Ring if you do not walk that way.”
“Can’t I give it away? Can’t I give it to you?”
Twardy Zarost threw his hands into the air. “Oh no, it’s not for the likes of me. But you can give it to the Shadow-man, if you want. No? First, you should know this. If you choose to bear the Ring yourself, your duty will grow every day, until you will never be able to set it down.”
There was no need for caution any more. She drew her right hand from her pocket and grasped the clear solidity of the Ring between the fingers of her left hand.
“What if I can’t get it off now? Does this mean I’m already bound by the duty?”
“You cannot get it off because you really do not want to,” he said, chuckling all the while. His eyes were bright with knowing. “Only later shall it be your duty which prevents you.”
Tabitha tried to pull it from her finger once more. As she touched it, she remembered the music, faint and clear. The Lifesong. The Ring was too beautiful to throw away. It had showed her things already. It would not always be hers, but for the moment, it could be, if she wanted.
“How do I find the wizard?”
“The Ring will show you, follow what you see.”
“Is the wizard to be found in Eyri?” she asked. It was a silly question, she supposed. There was nowhere to go outside of Eyri. Yet wizards were the things of legends, and she had always thought of them residing in the sky, or far, far away.
“The wizard? Wizards go everywhere. Who can say where a wizard begins, and where a wizard ends? But surely when you know where to look for the wizard, the wizard shall be near, that is true. You see, the wizard needs the Ring, but you must find the wizard.”
The story seemed to be bending in curious ways in the Riddler’s hands. Her earlier wariness returned. She wasn’t going to let him puzzle her so easily.
“Where? Where do I find the wizard?”
“North, south, east, west, wherever you decide. It is the path to the knowledge of the wizard you must follow. I cannot tell where the wizard shall be found.”
The Riddler’s evasiveness was becoming exasperating.
“What do you suggest, Twardy Zarost?” she asked. “Where should I go?”
“That is the third asking upon the same riddle, and so the final answer.” He paused for a moment to steeple his fingers. “What do you inherit from your parents?”
The directness of his question took her hard. She was forced to face the thoughts she most wanted to avoid. Her parents, assumed dead at Phantom Acres.
Inherit. It had been written, in her mother’s hand. She pulled the crumpled kerchief from her pocket, and smoothed in on her knee.
Legacy in chamber. Know I love you.
There was only one chamber it could be, beneath the hearth in their homestead. Her mother really had foreseen the end. Her inheritance awaited at Phantom Acres. It should not be abandoned, to be stolen by thieves. Whatever lay there, was precious. She had to get to the farm.
Strangely, the decision to collect her inheritance left her feeling empty and cold again. It seemed too much like setting things aside, getting on with her life. But she could see the clear course winding ahead like an illuminated path through the empty darkness of her thoughts, and she knew it was the path she must follow. The Ring was warm on her finger.
“You have decided?” the Riddler asked.
“I shall return to Phantom Acres.”
“And then?”
Tabitha paused.
“I shall go to the Dovecote in Levin. I shall present myself to become a Lightgifter.”
Zarost’s eyes reflected golden candle-light. “When do we leave?”
Tabitha was taken aback. He seemed ready to depart at once. “I must wait, until the—Shadowcaster—is arrested,” she answered.
“You will be taken away, by the Shadow who hunts you,” he warned. “The Sword is no match for him.” Zarost looked certain of that, and the more she considered it, the more she feared he might be right. Old Captain Steed had probably never dealt with a murderer in all his years of patrolling First Light.
“Best for you to make the first move,” said Zarost.
“But how? If he is out there,” Tabitha said, pointing to the shuttered windows, “he’ll attack the moment I leave. How can I go there, how can I go anywhere at all?” The certainty of
her purpose began to crumble beneath her, dissolve into that hollow darkness. She shivered.
Twardy Zarost rose from his chair. He stacked their plates and cleared the morsels from the table with a sweep of his hand.
“I can help, but only if you call upon me to help.”
He waited, his eyebrows raised expectantly. It took Tabitha a long moment to understand his strange request.
“Can you help me to escape from the Shadowcaster?” she asked.
Zarost bowed, a delighted grin creasing his beard.
“Yes. It is now your path and not mine that we tread. It is time a riddle was laid for our stalker. We shall be riding in the morning before dawn. Be ready for the knock-knocking upon your door.”
Tabitha nodded mutely. The Riddler was leaving, and he took something from the room with him. The shadows gathered beyond the range of the fire. She felt herself sinking. The Riddler turned at the door.
“Good night, Miss Serannon. We ride in the morning.”
“Good night, Twardy Zarost,” she whispered.
Back to Phantom Acres. Where she would find her parents.
The door closed.
Mother, give me strength!
She had to go. She had to retrieve her inheritance before … she shuddered. Would the Shadowcaster really be fooled by the Riddler? How far would she have to run to escape his reach? Surely the Dovecote would protect her? The Shadowcaster wouldn’t dare to follow her there.
Questions, questions, but no answers.
She remembered the biting cold of the Dark essence, and the look in the Shadowcaster’s eyes. He didn’t seem to be the kind who would give up. She forced herself to ignore the conclusion, to blow out the oil lamps, and to pretend that the thickening darkness held no threat.
She almost fooled herself.
She stripped, and slid beneath the bed-covers. The embers glowed a dull red in the hearth. Tabitha lay on her back, and stared at the ceiling. The beams were hidden in vagueness. So many people had come and gone. Now that the night was finally her own, the vaporous memories of the day dispersed, revealing the gnawing void beneath. She had pretended to be involved during the questioning. Now there was silence, and nothing else, only an empty place within her heart. She did not want to care any more, the caring hurt too much. She wished to be swallowed by the deep black emptiness.
The Riddler couldn’t help. He couldn’t bring her parents back.
When she closed her eyes, the room ceased to exist. She felt as if she were dissolving, vanishing like the day, crumbling like so much sand piled against the tide. The hollowness washed through her, taking everything, leaving nothing. She didn’t care.
The Ring was warm on her finger. At least there was that.
She lay for a long time, neither asleep nor awake, in the space between one thought and the next. The sounds of the night were distant—the muffled voices from the common-room, a faint clatter of pots from the kitchen, even a scuffing of feet outside her window—all belonged to a world far beyond where she was.
The emptiness stretched forever, and all the while she was sinking. A force tugged at her spirit, like a current which pulls a log toward a waterfall. From that river of empty darkness, she fell into an abyss of nothingness.
It felt as if her life was draining from her body. She was so weak, so tired, so peaceful. She didn’t try and understand—she didn’t care enough to try. All she could do was to watch, and wait, and witness what the Ring was showing her. Falling, falling.
Then she was still.
In that moment, she knew the awful proximity of her own death. There was nothing driving her, nothing keeping her alive. She had long since ceased to draw breath, but she couldn’t find the part of her that should be breathing, the part that should care. She had no form, no colour, almost no existence. She was a place of clarity, and no more.
The Ring took her further.
She heard a voice, a delicate small voice, singing a song which was woven under the surface of everything that lived. The lyrics touched her own clear memory.
She sang. The Lifesong vibrated in her core. Her spirit shimmered. A wind snatched at the air, swirling it around her. She sang against the hungry void, against the end, against death. Rapture took purchase in her soul, and somewhere beyond it all, she felt her body returning, as if she were becoming more alive, born from the void to the world again. Life coursed through her veins. She gasped, and drew a searing breath. The stanza of the Lifesong had ended.
Her bedroom returned with a rush. The solid beams of the ceiling loomed overhead in the gloom. The room was quiet, but blood roared in her ears. The soft sheet touched her body. The embers glowed. She was safe.
The Ring burned hot against her skin, but even as she made to release it from her finger, the strange glass cooled, and the need to remove it was gone.
The Lifesong was a gift, the Ring was a powerful tool. She resolved to learn about both. They had cost her too much to surrender them, or to waste them by giving up.
“Thank you, for making me strong,” she whispered to the clear circlet. She considered all that had happened to her.
A ring, a riddler, a slayer, a song.
Her life had been turned upside down. Zarost had offered to be her guide. There were forces at play which she didn’t understand. But she was certain of one thing.
She twisted the sheets in her fists even as she fell asleep. Her fate was cruel, but she was not willing to be washed under by the tide of Dark. She had found the will to fight. The Shadowcaster had a lot to answer for. And he would not get the Ring from her.
* * *
Twardy Zarost did not return to his rooms once he had delivered the plates to the kitchen. Instead, he swung the back door gently open, and slipped out into the cold night. He frowned as he searched the nearby darkness. He walked a way down the small street, then pulled back into the deep shadows and all but disappeared. Nothing moved. The moon cast a fey illumination upon the rooftops, picking out pale wood planking and speckled thatch. A cat yowled from across the cobbles. It padded along the street, but didn’t even look his way. With tail erect, it turned and marched off down a nearby alley. Nothing else stirred in First Light.
The Riddler shook his head, and moved into the street once more. The guard was missing. He slipped through the village, and came at last upon a large, squat building, set slightly apart from its neighbours. Thick rough-hewn timbers enclosed barred windows. A lamp burned beside the iron-bound door, casting a pool of light on the wide stone forecourt. Set into the centre of the door was the emblem of the Sword—the gilded hollow circle of Eyri divided into four equal parts by the lines of a sword’s cross-guard, blade and tang. It symbolised the Sword’s fairness with every segment of the population, and the presence of the King’s justice in all things. So they said. In truth, the segments were not equal, and one segment escaped justice altogether.
Twardy stepped into the light, and knocked.
“Who is it?” boomed a voice from beyond the door. At his answer, a heavy bolt was slid, and the door opened outwards. A man dressed in uniform motioned for Twardy to enter. The guard was gruff-looking, his cheeks bore stubble, his brows stern or staid. He closed the door with a thud once Zarost had passed.
A commanding veteran looked up from his desk.
“What news, Riddler?”
The greying captain sat with his quill raised expectantly above his journal, his lined face lit by a flickering candle. Oil lamps lit the wall behind him, filling the room with a functional glow.
“I have not seen the man again, Captain Steed,” Twardy Zarost answered. “Very good at hiding he seems.” He advanced to the desk, and drew up a wooden chair.
“Doubtless,” the Captain agreed. “One of my men has confirmed that the Shadowcaster is lurking in First Light. Ayche saw him, though the cretin vanished just as soon as he tried to close. I must say I did not believe you at first, thought you to be jumping at shadows. But I’ve stationed two Swords at the Tooth-and-Tale n
ow. If he is here, it can mean only one thing—he is after the Serannon girl.”
“The girl, and other things, but the girl is the most important. The guards at the Tooth couldn’t guard their own bungholes, Captain.”
The Captain stiffened, but Zarost continued.
“I found the back door unguarded.”
“Curses! I’ll have his sword for this. Ayche!” the Captain barked, “find that juggins Victor and return him to the Tooth. He must be ‘patrolling’ the Grone Street bar. And stay there tonight, as commanding breech-kicker.”
The guard who had admitted Zarost nodded sharply and lifted a dull helm from beside the door. He saluted the Captain with a raised fist before striding out into the night. The Captain gave Zarost a wry look.
“Our blades are perhaps a little rusty in these quiet parts.”
“Not so quiet any more, my Captain, not so quiet at all.”
Steed closed his journal, and rested his hands on the leather cover. “We shall wait until this Shadowcaster shows himself, and take him into custody. Then the peace shall return.”
“I am giving respect to yourself and your men, Captain, but you won’t catch this fish without a hook. And if he reaches the girl, she has not a chance.”
“I see.” Captain Steed eyed the Riddler for a while, his lips pursed. “You have something you wish to suggest?”
“There is a way to catch such a fish, even with a blunted hook.”
The Captain watched the wax candle burn down.
“Very well. I can’t afford to spend every day protecting one girl with all of my men. What are you getting at, Riddler?”
“Lay a net he does not see.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“Let me tell you what I shall do come morning, and you can decide if you’d like to fish.”
* * *
Ashley pushed the empty plate aside, and leant back in his chair. The Dormouse in Llury served hearty portions for a silver and six; they were accustomed to feeding loggers and hunters. The ache in his belly was gone. He wished there was a similar cure for the ache in his butt. He would gladly pay another silver. Walking had seemed a welcome respite from riding at the time, until he had discovered how tiring it was to walk at a horse’s pace. The scoured road to Llury had seemed to go on forever.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 15
