He would do anything to keep that hope alive.
14. ORDER
“Rumours and tales are powerful spells,
powerful spells indeed.”—Zarost
The morning sun brushed the great brown heights of Stormhaven with gold. The battlements and the city walls loomed over the harbour. Remnants of mist clung to the ground like a fallen nightgown wrapped about the city’s feet. Loose threads of mist crept across the harbour.
Tabitha could make out a few vessels through the gaps—here a boat with giant sails, there a yacht with a proud, slim bow. Two great stone wharves encircled the harbour, offering a narrow passage from the lake, but within the harbour there was ample space. Beside the far wharf was a sleek craft painted in bright gold and blue, with row upon row of oars sculled in parallel lines. Burnished shields marked off regular intervals along the gunwales. In the centre of each shield was the crossed symbol of the Sword.
She had been counting the rowlocks to pass the time when the surprising presence of the Morningsong swept all other thoughts aside. The singing came from within her Lightstone.
The music of the Dovecote Assembly filled her ears. She mouthed the words, but she couldn’t bring herself to sing. She was afraid that she would be detected somehow—an unworthy intruder upon the sanctity of the spell. She was not a real Lightgifter.
The voice of the choir was beautiful. No wonder her mother had begun every day with such joy in her smile. It had been explained to Tabitha how the Lightstone transmitted the true Morningsong sung in the Dovecote to all Gifters, but to feel it within, transcended description. It washed her doubts aside. She was part of the family of Lightgifters, a worthy sister working to spread health, hope and happiness through Eyri. The inspiration of the song reached deep into her, igniting a fierce determination to do what was right, to be true to the Light, to be pure, and good, and honest.
But she recognised her own hypocrisy. She had promoted herself to the rank of Lightgifter, without the Rector’s blessing.
Not me, it was the Riddler who did it.
Nonetheless, she tucked the Lightstone under her collar. The Morningsong continued, surged to its climax, and faded away.
Mulrano passed her a hunk of bread. She accepted it gratefully, and wolfed it down with the pieces of orange he offered. They floated close to the central quay, but Mulrano had not ventured to dock. He seemed determined to wait for something. Tabitha washed her fingers clean in the water. They were safe now, she thought. The night had seemed to last forever. Every time Tabitha had woken, Mulrano had been there, leaning his back strongly against the oars.
Now he stared at the city with distaste, then went back to munching on his breakfast. Tabitha searched the towering buildings for clues to his discomfort, but she could see none. Stormhaven looked beautiful—it rose from the gentle green isle in brown splendour, stone walls gleaming.
Not stone, stonewood, she remembered.
Her mother had told her about the legend of Stormhaven. It had been born in another time, in the time of the Seven Wizards. The defensive city had been a gift, awarded to the first King of Eyri. Certainly, it had been Eyrian carpenters who had raised the original walls from huge timbers. But it was the Seven Wizards who had cast their powerful spell to transform the wood into stone. Or so said the legend.
Real wizardry, Tabitha marvelled, not the simple magic of the essence. Will the Gifters ever learn to create stonewood? she wondered. She knew the answer. Not even the most advanced Lightgifters could escape the limits of the essence. Things could not be transformed by the Light, only healed, warmed, illuminated. The Dark? What she remembered of her encounter with the Shadowcaster was fear, despair and cold. She guessed that it was still based on essence, the touch of subtle energy. She remembered the way the Shadowcaster’s motes had swirled about him, like a halo of deadly flies. The Dark surely had no power to transform the world, only to terrify the people in it.
There was nothing that equalled the power evident in stonewood, and no lore advanced enough to unravel its mystery. She knew the Gifters had tried. Her mother had despaired of the task after many, many years. But the evidence of the wizardry was undeniable.
The legend of the Seven was lost in the mists of time, but Stormhaven stood proudly for all eternity. It sparked a yearning within her to discover the Wizard’s Lore. Twardy Zarost had said she must try to find the wizard, the owner of the Ring. Maybe she would have the chance to learn something of their ways.
As she considered the Ring, it warmed slightly on her finger, and she became aware of details she had missed with her casual glance.
Stormhaven’s walls were streaked with the beautiful woodgrains. They appeared new to the world, even though the barrier had stood through four centuries of Eyrian history. The walls which fronted onto the harbour boasted clean patterns of deep brown, with knots and streaks of darker hues.
The northern curve of the harbour wall formed a causeway, the Kingsbridge, which spanned the Amberlake with massive arches. The far end of the bridge was lost in the mist, but Tabitha knew it ran all the way to the shores of Levin, a distance of nearly a full league. Heavily laden wagons trundled along it. People walked, some rode, all inward bound, to the City Gates—a giant, cavernous entrance in the mighty walls, yawning at the morning sun, bristling with battlements that peered down from above.
A bustle of activity near the end of the quay caught her eye. A portly yellow-robed figure with a balding pate was striding importantly toward their vessel. He was accompanied by two stern guards. Mulrano stiffened in his seat. The portly man waved at the boat as if to shoo away a fly, and shouted long before he had reached their side.
“Be off with you. Have you not learned your place on the far side of Amberlake? You have no business here anymore, be off!”
When he reached the end of the wharf, he peered down into the fishing vessel. “Your daughter is no more welcome than you, get thee gone, fisherman.” Mulrano turned away from the little man, with an angry glare. He glanced at Tabitha, and jerked his head back toward the official on the wharf. She was expected to speak for them.
“I am not his daughter, but you have no right to talk to him that way. He saved me from the Shadowcaster. He is a good man.”
“He is associated with criminals, and has no place on the King’s Isle. Hah, yes bite your tongue, smuggler,” he laughed at Mulrano’s back. “I am an Official of the King’s Court. What is your business at Stormhaven, girl?”
Tabitha’s mind whirled. She had little idea of how to deal with a Court Official, if that was who the disagreeable toad was. She had not expected to be challenged, yet it was obvious that Mulrano had. It explained why they floated quayside, but hadn’t tied up. Technically, she supposed that meant they hadn’t landed at Stormhaven. Mulrano must have known there would be trouble for him in the docks.
She used the first faltering answer that came to mind. “I am Tabitha Serannon, I seek sanctuary. I am pursued by a Shadowcaster.”
“Strange passage you chose, at night, with a smuggler. And where is this—Shadowcaster—now?” His words were steeped with mockery.
Tabitha didn’t bother to turn and search the harbour. She had put that fear to rest. The Shadowcaster had not followed after the sudden mishap of last night, when his canoe had disappeared beneath the waters.
“We, ahh, Mulrano, evaded him last night. His canoe sank. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Then you have no need for sanctuary!” announced the Official, triumphantly. “If you’re looking for charity, you had better be off to the Dovecote in Levin. This is the King’s Isle, and only people on the King’s business may land here.”
She searched for the Ring on her finger, felt its clarity infuse her mind. She knew what to say. The truth cut through her nervousness.
“No, I claim sanctuary. My parents were murdered by the one who pursues me, and justice has not been done.” It sounded so cold, stating it out loud as fact. But it felt right, too.
“Do not lie to me, girl, or you will not step onto the King’s Isle. You accuse the Sword of negligence for an unpunished crime, you claim pursuers who aren’t there. How am I to believe such wild tales?”
The man cared nothing of her woes. If he was too blind to see the truth of her plight, she would have to make it clearer for him. She stood up against the mast, and brought her eyes to bear on the men above. The path ahead was clear. She knew of the custom she could call upon which he could not refuse.
“I demand an audience with the King by the orb of the Lightgifter,” she said slowly, feeling the weight of her words as they were pronounced across the water. She had spoken true words, yet she knew they would be interpreted another way. She demanded audience by the orb, she hadn’t said she was a Lightgifter. The truthful duplicity made her feel a vague kinship with the Riddler.
An audience could not be denied. She may have to wait for it, but her audience would be granted. Lightgifters were nobility, and carried the royal favour wherever they went.
“You try too hard with your lies, girl,” the Official scoffed. “I had almost believed you. But a Lightgifter, in woodsman’s clothes, with a farmer’s surname, in a smuggler’s boat? Hah!”
The guards remained impassive. They were either well-accustomed to the little man’s insidious nature, or they were trained to show nothing of their own opinion. Tabitha wanted to throw the toad into the green depths of the harbour.
Maybe that’s why he walks with two guards—I’m not the first to think it. She reached inside the neck of her high-collared tunic, and pulled her mother’s orb out on its short chain.
There was silence for a time. One guard shifted in his armour, creaking the leather. The water rose and fell gently on the poles which supported the wharf. The Official peered down at Tabitha, as if she were a rare specimen found floating in his soup. As his eyes focused on the orb and showed him his mistake, his face attempted to slide into an expression of welcome. But it was an unaccustomed expression, and his frown remained, making him look like a child who had just wet his own nappy, and was not yet sure what to do about it.
“Aren’t you a little young to be wearing the orb, then?”
“That is the Dovecote’s decision, not yours,” she said, with swelling courage. A Lightgifter would act imperious, not cowed. This was a delicate game, to answer only with truthful words, yet not reveal her gambit. She was not really a Lightgifter. Not yet.
“What matter do you wish brought before the King, Miss Serannon?”
She had claimed the Lightgifter’s privilege. She would have to go through with it.
An audience with the King! Mercy, I’ll look a fool.
The Official needed an answer. “I would discuss the dire threat of the Shadowcasters.”
“Do you have knowledge of such?”
“First hand knowledge. But I would discuss it with the King, and not to all in the Stormhaven harbour.” It was a dangerous demand, but the game of delicate truth was making her nervous. She had to get herself onto the King’s Isle. The Official puckered his lips.
“Very well,” he said, looking plainly displeased, “I shall have to escort you to chambers.” He regarded her for a few seconds. “How much longer must we wait for you?”
With a start, Tabitha realised he meant for her to come ashore. She touched Mulrano on his shoulder and he turned to face her. His earlier fury had faded, but a trace of it remained in his gathered brows.
Mulrano dipped his oars into the water, and moved the boat to the base of a flight of steps which were cut into the stone wall. He passed Tabitha the leather satchel that held the remains of their hastily packed provisions. One of the guards descended, and held out a hand to help Tabitha alight. As soon as her feet were on the slippery stone of the base step, the guard kicked strongly at the boat, and shoved it back into the harbour waters. His face remained impassive as he crowded Tabitha up the stairs. Tabitha was appalled.
“But my friend, Mulrano, what about him?” She tried to see over the guard’s shoulder, but he herded her up the last of the steps onto the wharf.
“Stop pushing me! Stop it.” She emerged in front of the Official and his second guard. “He’s just rowed the whole night. Why can’t he come ashore?” she demanded.
The little man sneered. “That traitor is lucky to be alive. If it weren’t for the mercy of our King Mellar, he wouldn’t be. If I’d had my way, he would be lying at the bottom of the Amberlake, chained to a large rock. He doesn’t set foot on the Isle.”
She was surprised to see Mulrano already halfway across the harbour, pulling hard on his oars. The leather bag slipped in her hands.
I haven’t even thanked him for what he did.
Mulrano was facing her, his bluff features visible as he leant back on each stroke. On a sudden impulse, she brought her hands up to her lips, and blew a kiss out across the water. She wished him strength, in whatever he did. She spread her hands, palms out towards the water. A surge of warmth passed her. Sunlight sparkled and played across the water, a hundred ripples of light tracked toward the little fishing boat, then were gone.
Sunlight or sprites? she wondered, but they were gone, and the harbour water had returned to its placid blue-green hue. It was a foolish fantasy. The Light needed a pattern and spell to guide it. You couldn’t just wish strength to someone, the sprites wouldn’t move unless you were a Lightgifter. She touched the white orb at her throat self-consciously. The orb would be difficult to explain, if she met any Lightgifters. She tucked it under the high collar of her tunic once more.
Her escort had not seemed to notice anything. She turned away from the last sight of Mulrano, who was hoisting his sail in the harbour mouth. The bag which Mulrano had left her was soft and light, and fitted snugly to her back.
The Official grumbled, and set off. Tabitha was led from the harbour district toward the entrance to Stormhaven proper. They were stopped at a checkpoint before the arching City Gates. Stonewood walls towered to either side, smooth as polished glass. The walls would frustrate the most determined attempt at a scaling assault. Tabitha saw movement on the high battlements, and the glint of steel.
At the Official’s behest, one of the escorting soldiers announced them from the back of the crush.
“Make way, Lethin Tarrok with the King’s business!”
The crowd parted reluctantly, but the escort soon reached the City Guard. The gatekeeper copied down some brief details. They entered the mighty gatehouse.
Now that the portly Official had her in his grasp, he wouldn’t shut up. He talked incessantly while they walked, listening little to what Tabitha had to say, offering only a curt “humph!” or “ach!” before launching on another monologue. After discovering that Tabitha had never been to Stormhaven, he smothered her with his knowledge of protocol. He seemed determined to make her feel as unsophisticated as possible, as if knowing that her request for an audience was ill-considered.
Tabitha began to doubt the wisdom of her course. Stormhaven enveloped her with massive walls. Hundreds of busy, important people, rushed by, their voices joining in a hubbub. The grandeur of the city was overwhelming. The Official droned on.
“Your stay will be brief; once you have attended your audience you must return to your home, or the Dovecote, wherever.”
She began to explain that her home was destroyed, but the Official cut her off without so much as a pause of acknowledgement.
“You must know that there are many people who seek an audience with the King, and he has little enough time as it is, without wasting it on whimsical fantasies. You will be lodged in the Boarding until such time as you are summoned, and you are to make little nuisance of yourself. You may be a Lightgifter, but you are still a young woman with a tall tale, in my eyes, so don’t you get airs and graces, especially not when we talk of the King of Eyri. I shall put your case to the King, and we shall see if he deigns to an audience. You would do well to remain out of sight until then. The city is not as safe as you think, and
there are those who might consider a young woman on her own an easy target.”
There was a warning note in the Official’s voice. Tabitha looked nervously around. The two soldiers continued to pace alongside, in escort. A jingling sound accompanied every second step. She tried to identify which piece of armour made the sound. With a start she realised it was coming from her pocket—the heavy bulge contained the pouch of coins she had collected from Phantom Acres. She hastily transferred it from her cloak to the leather bag. The coins would be quieter on her back. People became funny around coin, she knew.
Maybe the Official had been trying to be helpful with his warning, but she couldn’t ignore the shiver that passed down her spine when she caught his eye on her. The sooner she could be rid of the man, the better.
The Official hurried on, taking a route through the streets that seemed to bypass the main traffic. They climbed, and she began to tire. It had been a long night, and an even longer day before that. The empty feeling of her loss was always there. She ran her eyes over the architecture of Stormhaven, trying to find peace in the distraction of its beauty.
Most of the city appeared more like a sculpture than a building. Tabitha had seen drawings of Stormhaven, and knew the city to be a complex geometric design, a giant, tiered octagon. From street level it was the individual buildings that were most impressive. Everything was big, reaching for the azure sky with crenellated ridges or steeply pitched roofs. Ancient stonewood defined precise arches which spanned the street high above. In places, it seemed that tree-trunks were folded into the architecture as cornerstones, though no trace of branches remained. Some roofs were rippled, as if made from water-worn wood. Yet it was obvious that the ancient design had been overlaid by a pressing modern need for development. The stonewood buildings were set far apart, and between them were crammed ruder structures of wood and stone. The low houses and inns would have been elegant anywhere else, but beside the arching grandeur of the stonewood architecture, the newer buildings seemed crude.
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