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

by Greg Hamerton

  They shared an elegant dessert that was laden with the taste of sharp orange, sweet apple, and soft cream. The breeze rustled through the arches of the arboretum. Small, chirruping birds descended on their table the moment they left, to scour the plates for crumbs.

  May settled their account, then hugged Tabitha in parting.

  “Ask the librarian to show you the ancient histories, like the Legend of the Forming,” she said. “It will answer a lot of your questions about wars, kings and wizards.”

  “Thank you, May, for everything. You’ve been so kind to me.”

  May smiled. “Never fear to call on me, when you have need. Messages travel swiftly with my guidelings.”

  * * *

  Tabitha was soon mounting the stairs to the Library for the second time that day. The doorman nodded in recognition as she passed.

  “Closing time is four bells, missy.”

  His gruff words followed her down the vaulted admission corridor. She was sure to be done in two hours. There was only so much one could take in, and to Tabitha it seemed that the whole of the last week had been saturated with detail. In truth, a few minutes of poring over the ancient histories would probably be enough to put her to sleep.

  But when she finally sat before the thick tome of The Forming, and opened its heavy leather cover, she found that she was drawn into another world. The book told of battles and sieges, of wild magic, the formation of Stormhaven, and the inauguration of the first King of Eyri. Vivid illustrations mirrored each page of text, showing the action and tragedy, heroism and valour, terrifying beasts, armoured men, and the ravages of war. It was history, but a history so colourful and rapid that Tabitha scarcely noticed her second candle of the day failing in its saucer. The hours passed by in the blink of an eye, a blink filled with learning.

  War was a strange thing for Tabitha. She had lived all her life in peace, her ancestors had lived in peace. Before the Shadowcaster’s evil deed, she would have found it difficult to imagine real battles and bloodshed. Yet such strife seemed to be the norm in the ancient times, according to the legend.

  There was no clear enemy, but the invasions into Eyri never ceased. They battled fierce dusty men with shaven heads, the northern Lûk, whose pointed staffs and great woven shields made them difficult targets, and whose devious thrownets were said to grip like iron cables. The Lûk claimed the Eyrian land belonged to them, that it was a holy place, the source of the Ever-running Waters, and should not be set foot upon. The Eyrians claimed that they were there to stay, and so they fought.

  A vicious clan of axe-wielding miners who had travelled through the Zunskar, apparently seeking to extend their lode of gold, claimed ancestral ownership of all the mountains around Eyri. The Eyrians said they could stay if they wanted to mine and trade in iron, but that they would never own the mountains. This led to a battle in the Broken Lands which lasted for three bitter winter months before the miners surrendered.

  The westland was infiltrated by cloaked archers, and the stronghold of Llury was besieged by a band who announced their kind as Hunters from Eastmark; leather-armoured, swift-footed, difficult to track or even face, for they shot from afar, from the trees, from the dark. They offered no truce or treaty—they came for women, they had few of their own. Nowhere within the surrounding Great Forest was safe, even after the Eyrian men learned to ambush the Hunters by dressing as women with blades concealed in their clothes, and to steal the horned-tipped bows from those Hunters they killed. It cost many lives to regain command of the pallisaded Llurian village.

  Eyrians had been divided in their warring, for it appeared that there was no unified Sword or even a King of Eyri. The inhabitants of the realm were herders, trappers, fishermen and traders, yet all were called upon to be warriors. Few crops were grown, and nothing was said of crafts except for the iron-forgery at Respite, the site of many harrowing battles. Only the strongest or the luckiest survived. The people were gradually forced inwards from the rim of Eyri, to the great defensive settlement of Levin.

  And then the worst threat of all fell upon them—the beasts of black hunger, the nightmare of the winged Morgloth. A single beast was said to claim one hundred lives. There seemed to be no defence against its scourge. One artwork depicted five Morgloth circling the town, with terrified people scattering beneath.

  It was there in Levin that the Gyre of the Seven Wizards appeared. It wasn’t clear in the writing where they came from, or why they came. They drove the Morgloth back. They were always depicted as a group, standing close to form a circle. A great meeting of the peoples was called soon after the Gyre’s arrival.

  The Gyre set a trial. They laid a sword upon the ground within their circle, a sword unlike any ever seen before, of fine craftsmanship and apparent lightness. The aged wizard who demonstrated it to the crowds wielded it with ease despite its size. It was forged, they said, to be wielded against the Morgloth. The beasts had been driven off, but they would return.

  Any man or woman who could breach the Gyre’s circle was said to be worthy to receive the gift. A day of furious attempts ensued, but every hopeful was repelled, no matter how hale or hardy they seemed. The people became frenzied, for the sword was obviously valuable. Everyone wanted to own it. But the circle of the Gyre had a warding, some hidden device of sorcery that shielded the wizards. Even the rocks that were thrown in frustration rebounded at the throwers. The people must have felt cheated fools, until at last, one warrior breached the circle.

  Stevenson became the instant hero of the people, even more so when his tale was told, for he had approached the circle wanting the blade not for himself, but for the defence of the people of Eyri—he was truly prepared to face the Morgloth. Thus did the blade Felltang pass into Stevenson’s hands. Stevenson was later named the first Swordmaster of Eyri, for his selfless use of the sword against all foes.

  That must be the blade at Garyll’s side, Tabitha marvelled. Felltang. At least a part of the myth was true, if all the rest sounded wild and fantastic.

  There came upon the Eyrians a time of desperate war, for the Lûk came renewed from the north. But the Gyre did not abandon the people to die. They caused the bedrock to rise up from the Amberlake, linking the land at Levin to the distant wooded isle in the lake’s centre by a narrow causeway. The Gyre made a strange offer—for those who would swear fealty to the crown of Eyri, the Gyre would assist to build a mighty defence on the isle, and there the people would be safe. But there was confusion, for Eyri did not yet have a King. In answer, the wizards produced the Kingsrim, a golden coronet of fine crafting. They explained that it would be sufficient to kneel before the crown alone. The monarch would be chosen in good time.

  Now the Eyrians were fierce survivors, and were suspicious of things they did not understand. How could they swear allegiance to a King who had yet to be crowned? The offer seemed too open to trickery and abuse. But as they argued, the assault intensified. A new force of leather-faced men descended on horseback from the southern highlands, bearing fletched spears and wickedly barbed throwing discs, adding to the threat of the Lûk. The invaders were devastating, but they were crippled by their own diversity. They fought as much with each other as with the Eyrians. Over all this the Morgloth swooped, taking lives wherever they wished, paying no heed to the changing sides of battle. It was from this bloody chaos that Stormhaven was born.

  One by one, the Eyrians swore fealty to the Unnamed King, and retreated over the Kingsbridge to the isle, for their burden of battle was grievous, and they could see the inevitable end of their kin.

  Soon, the city of Stormhaven began to take shape, and from the first moment it offered the Eyrians a reprieve from their war. The Kingsbridge was narrow, and easily defended. They had feared that their wooden walls would prove too weak, until the Gyre had revealed the wonder of stonewood. There was fish aplenty in the Amberlake, orchards and forests on the isle, and even herds of mountain goats on the higher slopes. There was much speculation about the Gyre in those days, abou
t how they caused the fruit trees to bear fruit enough to feed all, how their magic caused waves to wash attackers from the Kingsbridge, how they sank any boats that tried the crossing from the distant shores, yet all these accounts smacked of heresay and speculation. There was even an ill-tempered rumour that the Gyre had instigated all the attacks in the first place, to bind the Eyrians to them with a single cause.

  The invaders continued to throw themselves against the growing defences on the Kingsbridge, and Stevenson was often called upon to rally the men to his aid, to meet the assault with wits and steel. All the while, Stormhaven grew under the guiding vision of the Gyre, the City Walls were raised, the mighty Gatehouse constructed, the ramparts and tiered inner defences took shape. It was a time of back-breaking work, but it was a time of hope as well. For the Eyrians could see that their strength was growing, not waning. A pride unified them as Stormhaven rose higher and mightier against the sky.

  At last, the Gyre announced that Stormhaven was properly founded, and the time had come for its ruler to be chosen. The King was to be named. The Kingsrim was raised to an expectant crowd, and set upon a chair. The Gyre formed their circle wide around it, and issued their final test.

  “The man who shall reach the crown is the one who can accept the full responsibility with a truthful intent. Wait!” they cried, halting the crowd’s advance on their circle. “Hear first what the responsibility is. The crown shall form the centre of Eyri, and the centre it must remain for the realm to be. Its outline is the horizon, the limit of Eyri is the limit of the realm, and there we shall place a shield that none may penetrate, so long as the crown remains in the centre, in Stormhaven. But know this—the Shield of Eyri shall bind invaders out, but it shall bind you in. This is the responsibility of the one who would claim the crown—to never leave Stormhaven, and to accept the border of Eyri as the limit of the world, for himself and for all future generations of his people.”

  “What if the people do not wish to be bound thus?” came the angry cry from the crowds.

  “It is not for the people to defy these terms,” the Gyre’s spokesman answered. “You who inhabit this isle have already given your word, and by it you are bound, for it was given in the presence of seven wizards. You serve your King, in everything.”

  Most of the crowd were sobered by this, but some of the more hot-headed pushed to the fore, intent on assault. It was Felltang that they met, the blade of Stevenson. The solidarity of their Swordmaster pacified them, offered them leadership in their confusion.

  The crowd’s chant became one for Stevenson, urging him to try for the crown.

  “King! King! King! King!” The call resounded from Stormhaven’s high walls.

  “How shall I use this sword in the defence of Eyri if I am to remain in the Isle?” answered Stevenson. “We must reclaim the land to the four horizons. Nay, if the King is to remain as the centre-stone of our new order, I shall serve him best as his Swordmaster. Those men who wish to join me, will be in my fighting squad, the Sword of Eyri.”

  The matter of the King of Eyri still remained unanswered, and so the trials began. The Gyre’s filter of magic was stronger than ever, the people threw themselves against the barrier to no avail. The day drew on towards sunset, and still the Kingsrim gleamed from its chair in the centre of the Gyre, untouched. That no one was worthy seemed a spiteful trick.

  It was a young boy, no more than thirteen years, who finally entered the circle of the seven wizards. A hushed silence grew upon the crowd; part disbelief, part wonder. The most greying member of the Gyre announced the King of Eyri.

  “This boy has succeeded where you have failed, because his heart does not desire other things. His intent is pure on this—to rule fairly, to sacrifice his freedom to rule, to honour the Shield and protection of Eyri forever.”

  Inspired more by his courage than by a trust of his judgement, the people of Eyri applauded their new King. They had no choice, their word bound them. The Unnamed King had been named. Richard Mellar.

  The family line is unbroken, Tabitha marvelled. There was still a King Mellar on the throne, the legacy had lasted that long. The seven wizards, the first young King, the Swordmaster Stevenson and even the scribe who had recounted the coronation would all be long dead, for the mythical Forming had taken place over four hundred years in the past. Apart from the fanciful illustrations of the fearsome Hunters, fiercer Lûk, and winged Morgloth, another aspect of the legend raised a question which couldn’t be answered. Why would a group of seven wizards work to create a kingdom, then leave it and never return? The parts of the history of Eyri didn’t add up to a whole.

  “Last call,” came a gruff voice, interrupting her thoughts.

  The doorman poked his head into Tabitha’s alcove.

  “Missy, you cannot spend the night here, no missy no. Four bells is gone and you don’t come by.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear anything. How late am I?”

  “Early for sunset, missy, but not by much.”

  Tabitha closed the book of the Forming carefully, and followed the doorman through the long aisles of the Library. She wondered if wizards really existed anywhere beyond ancient legends.

  20. MIDNIGHT’S PASS

  “Be careful of the little men,

  for they will have the biggest dogs.”—Zarost

  The Crowbar was a dark and sprawling inn. It hid in the mists of Fendwarrow’s evening like a highwayman, lurking in concealment until traffic passed close by on the main street. Kirjath savoured the rich aroma of pitch that seeped inwards from the log walls. It was dark and smoky inside, pulsing with urgent secrets, with lust and Dwarrow-wine.

  The man who owned the Crowbar guaranteed discretion. Mukwallis was no fool in the ways of the world. The wine at the Crowbar was always rich, dark and utterly intoxicating. The entertainment always drove the patrons wild—to further drink or into the arms of the main commerce done in the Crowbar.

  Mukwallis had been discreet about the Lightgifter whom Kirjath had deposited on his way to Ravenscroft. It was not the first time that the cellars of the Crowbar had hidden something other than jurrum and Dwarrow-wine. The woman had evidently been washed, and fed, which was more than Kirjath would have bothered with. When the Gifter had been brought to his private room, Kirjath had waved the innkeeper’s offers of extra services aside, and closed the door abruptly.

  He had been keenly anticipating the moment when he could vent his fury. All the way down the long return from Ravenscroft, Kirjath had chewed on his broken tooth and tasted the bile of being a Shadowcaster. He would return to defy Cabal. No one treated Kirjath Arkell like a slave, not even the Darkmaster.

  The walls of Kirjath’s room were thick, sound would not travel far. His door could be bolted from the inside. Oh, how he loved the Crowbar.

  He kicked the blonde again. Her head plunged into the steel basin on the carpet. She was unwilling, but naked all the same. Kirjath knew he could have stripped her himself, but that wouldn’t have had a sufficient taste of victory, no thrill of domination. She had to be the one to undress, but she had refused. It had been good to get reacquainted with her.

  She had soon remembered the Gateway, when he had completed the design on the carpet with spilled red wine. She had understood very quickly then, and her clothes had fallen to the floor.

  He traced the circle idly with his foot. A touch of Dark essence, and the Gateway would be ready. The Morgloth were just on the other side. Sadly, there was no real need to say the word. The Lightgifter was obeying his every whim now. She was already proving to be boring.

  But he did renew the spell of Silence which held her voice, just in case. She had found her lungs the last time he had used her.

  “Dye yours as well,” he ordered the woman, scooping her white robe from the floor with his foot. She drew the robe into the basin of red wine. Kirjath watched the way the skin of her back stretched over darkening bruises as she kneaded the robe in the basin.

  * * *

  Ashl
ey didn’t like Fendwarrow. The air had an acrid scent to it. It was colder and murkier than anywhere they had travelled through. A clammy mist made the night seem oppressive. He could almost feel the presence of evil oozing through the town, the eyes that watched, hidden in the shadows. Even the horses seemed affected by the weighted silence, and their heads drooped tiredly as they plodded along the cobbled main street.

  They came upon the infamous Crowbar. The years of debauchery seemed to have soaked into the very architecture, for even the walls couldn’t stand straight.

  “Our horses must rest, and feed,” said Father Keegan. “We’ll take private rooms. I don’t expect I’ll see either of you in the common-room tonight, but I must try to fish for news of the Shadowcaster.” He eyed first Ashley, then Grace.

  Glavenor turned in his saddle as they drew near to the Crowbar’s sprawling frontage.

  “I’ll see what the Swords have to say. Don’t wait for me—get yourselves a meal.”

  “There is a Swordhouse in Fendwarrow?” Ashley asked, surprised that the law and such lawlessness could live in the same town.

  “Yes, Ashley, a house filled with Swords who become rapidly blunted. You surely met Victor in First Light. He came from here. Can’t hold his drink, or keep his hand from the bottle. I had to replace the Captain here not two weeks ago. The Swords in this town have to be cycled yearly, lest too much darkness soaks into their bones. No one forgets their year in Fendwarrow.” Garyll swung his horse away from them, and clattered off across the wet cobbles.

  Father Keegan shouldered his pack. “See to the horses, Ashley, and then come through the front and join us in our rooms. I will see to it that our meal is delivered upstairs. I’ll not have our meal interrupted by the coarse locals.”

  Really, how bad can it be? Ashley thought, as he dismounted and collected the three bridles. He led the horses around the back of the inn, where the stables lurked. The stalls boasted more drunken angles than the architecture of the main building.