King Mellar shook his head. “The sanctuary I provide is for everyone. No, I want to award you something personal. You mentioned that you are a singer. Do you play an instrument?”
“A lyre,” Tabitha replied, then felt forlorn. “It was burned with mother’s, in the fire.”
“A lyre then,” said the King, determination in his eye. “When you will, visit the Den of Notes in the merchant’s quarter. Tell Yzell that it is the King’s wish to award you with a lyre. You will do that?”
Tabitha nodded. “Thank you.”
The King reached into a drawer, and produced a stick of sealing wax and a scrap of paper. He held the stick over a candle. Purple wax dripped onto the paper. He waited a moment, then pressed his ring into it.
“It is a small thing,” he said, handing her the royal seal, “though I hope it brings a song to your heart. Show this to Yzell, he’ll understand. Now what do you plan to do from here?”
The question caught her by surprise. She had never dwelt much upon what she would do after the audience. She had come to Stormhaven to hide. But she could not hide forever.
“I shall present myself to the Dovecote for my apprenticeship. As soon as possible.”
King Mellar smiled. “You waste no time, a trait which many in this city could learn.” He pulled on a cord behind his desk, and the faint chime of a bell could be heard.
“I would advise, though, that you wait until we have apprehended the Shadowcaster. You will be safe in Stormhaven, but Levin is not so disciplined.”
The servant took a few minutes to arrive. When the door finally swung open, it revealed a breathless Lethin Tarrok, damp yellow robe and all.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” Tarrok looked bothered, as if the summons had interrupted matters of greater importance.
“When Miss Serannon requests it, she shall have an escort of Swords to accompany her to the Dovecote in Levin.”
Lethin Tarrok nodded slowly. Too slowly, Tabitha thought, as if he was reluctant to do anything.
“Certainly, your Majesty. The men shall be made ready when she asks.” He leered towards Tabitha. “Can you ride?” He seemed pleased at himself for some reason, but the King glowered at Tarrok.
“A carriage, Tarrok!”
“Ah,” the little man said, “she has become someone of importance. How do women do that, overnight? As you wish, my King.”
Mellar’s green eyes bored into Tarrok until the Official dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Tarrok, I did not employ you to be my Fool. I shall tell you if I wish to hear your wit.”
“Majesty,” Tarrok said, in an almost humble tone.
“Now are there any important audiences awaiting my attention?”
“Lord Luross, your Highness, seeks to discuss an upgrade of the High Way. Lady Ahlen of Levin, wanting charity for her hungry waifs. A few minor nobles with minor grievances.”
“Good. You can tell them that I shall attend them in the throne room presently. That will be all.”
Tarrok bowed, and backed out of the King’s private study. Tabitha was certain she saw the man smirk before the door closed with an audible thump.
“Well, the wheels of the kingdom grind on. I must see to the steering. Thank you for coming forth with your tale, Tabitha.”
She was being dismissed, she realised. Tabitha stood, and curtsied before King Mellar.
“Thank you, Highness. I shall serve you in all that I do.”
The smile that spread through the King’s beard was genuine, but he waved a finger at her. “A powerful oath, but might I change it? Serve Eyri in all that you do. Then we shall strive for the same thing.”
“I shall serve Eyri.”
May rose beside her, and curtsied her leave from the King, but Mellar forestalled her exit.
“A moment in private, Maybelle, if I may.”
Maybelle shot Tabitha a merry glance, and made a gentle shooing gesture with the hand behind her back.
Oh.
Tabitha scurried for the door, curtsied again, and pulled it to after her.
Maybelle and the King?
It was possible that they might be talking of policy, and nothing else. Yet the more she considered it, the more perfect the match seemed. Everyone knew that the King had never remarried after he had lost his Queen, so many years ago. He didn’t deserve to be lonely.
* * *
She exited the grand arched palace doors to spectacular light. Everything was white, brilliant sparkling white. The mist had advanced during her audience to lap against the lower steps of the palace. The grounds and the forecourt were smothered in vapours. It was as if a tide had risen, and the city of Stormhaven had been flooded. The buildings of the Upper District poked their stern forms through the vaporous sea, looking like overturned boats with golden keels. The sentry post bobbed closer at hand, with five Swords who stood in the shallows, their legs lost to view. It was beautiful, but eerie too. The mist absorbed the sounds of the city. It was surreal, and it felt as if she was about to step into a dream world.
The guards nodded to her as she approached the palace gates, and they stood aside to let her pass. The mists pulled overhead as she crossed the Forecourt. By the time she had reached the Boarding, the sun was a diffused incandescence. It was too wonderful a day to be indoors, she decided. She turned from the stair.
She found her way down toward the merchant’s quarter with an eager stride. The mists became cooler and thicker. Horses clicked towards Tabitha on the cobbles, then the riders emerged from the shroud, only to vanish again as soon as they had passed. Somewhere, a hammer pounded upon iron. As Tabitha focused on the sounds, her Ring brought a wealth of details to mind, piercing the mist for her.
Traders heckled with one another over a bolt of cloth. A tailor complimented a customer loudly. A gaggle of women guffawed. Three youths burst out of a side street, fighting and running at the same time. Through everything, the pungent smells of the city—horses, stone, clothes, people and the less savoury scent of the canals.
Tabitha realised she had halted in the street, overwhelmed by the sensations. She tried to ignore the clarity of the Ring, and focused on finding the musician’s shop. The lower district of Stormhaven was a well-ordered network of streets and old buildings. A few enquiries guided her to a door beneath the carved signboard of the Den of Notes.
Chimes tinkled above her as she crossed the threshold. It was gloomy within the shop, but warm. It smelled of wood-shavings, and oil, and parchment. Musical scores were piled on a well-worn desk, and weighted with a bell. A small fire burned low in a hearth. Nobody attended the front room.
Just then a piercing blast come from within the building. There was a clatter of metal, then a vehement curse.
“Ah, beat the piper black and blue! My head, my blessed head. Will you never learn, Yzell? Strings in the mornings, pipes after noon!”
The sounds of stumbling continued for a while, then the heavy thump of a body seeking refuge in a chair. The rasp of a metallic file began. The hidden voice began to chant, an off-key baritone.
“Cursed wine, cursed wine, my head is victim—of the vine.”
Tabitha’s curiosity drew her around the desk, toward the narrow back door that stood ajar.
“Hullo?” she tried. The filing continued, then was replaced by the thump of a mallet.
“Hullo?” Louder this time.
“Eh? Come in!” came the delayed response.
The room she entered was a jumble of carved wood and half-finished instruments. A pale man with a shock of grey hair gave her a gaunt, apologetic smile. He was deep in the refuge of his chair.
“Hullo Gifter. What can I do for you?” Then to his lap he said, “Trumpets, they make the damnedest noise if they aren’t tuned.”
“Who were you talking to?” asked Tabitha. There seemed to be no one else in the workshop, though with the clutter she couldn’t be certain.
He waggled the brass trumpet vaguely. “The sins of a late-night worker.”
“You’re Yzell?”
He nodded. “Though I should have retired long ago.” Suddenly his ringed eyes brightened. “You’re a Gifter. Would you heal me, it’s a real pounder this morning.” He tapped lightly on his own temple.
“I—can’t. I’m still in training.”
“Ah, too bad then. Suppose it’s my own fault anyway, I should’ve left the revelry to the younger folk. You know my prices are higher when I’ve a headache?” he ended, but when Tabitha refused to respond to his mild coercion, the hopeful look faded from his face.
“What instrument?” he asked.
“Ah, a lyre. The King’s gift.”
At this, he shook off the appearance of sufferance. “You have a seal?”
Tabitha handed the blank slip of paper over.
“He must trust you well, to leave the gift and craftsman undefined. And trust me to destroy the chit.” He looked at the paper for a moment, then tore it in two. “The power of a trusting King. A lyre, you said?”
“That’s what the King wanted. I—I don’t need anything special,” Tabitha stammered, suddenly awkward about what she was expecting of the instrument maker. “A wooden seven-string is what I played, before.”
“And how would my King feel, knowing I had given you a cheap product to display his thanks? No!” he said, tossing the trumpet he had been holding over his shoulder. “You shall get the King’s lyre he sent you to collect.” The trumpet disturbed a pile of cymbals, which tumbled with vigour to the floor. “And I shall charge him accordingly,” he said over the noise, a conspiratorial glint to his eye. “That’s how these things work, young Gifter.”
“I am Tabitha. Tabitha Serannon.” She extended her hand to the seated musician.
Yzell’s grip was firm and dry. He used the handshake to pull himself suddenly from the chair. Tabitha staggered, but retained her balance.
“How will you be playing this lyre? Badly, or well?” he asked. He was taller than Tabitha had expected. He smelled of wood-chips.
“Well enough to keep a tavern filled for a few hours,” she said. She did not want to seem vain, but he had to know she could play.
“A tavern singer?” Yzell exclaimed, his eyes bright, “and there I was taking you for a humming Gifter.” He left her abruptly and picked his way through the obstacles in his workshop. “What songs do you play the best?”
Tabitha searched through her repertoire; the crowds enjoyed the tankard-thumpers, but she loved the harmonic pieces best. “Treachery’s Dawn. The Ballad of the Forest. The Glee of Genesis.”
He paused to look at her from the far side of a bench. “You can—complete that, the Glee?”
Tabitha nodded. Yzell’s face lit up. He rummaged through his creative debris, muttering imprecations to himself.
“Ever played a strangle-oak?” he asked, an instrument in hand.
It was Tabitha’s turn to feel overwhelming surprise. Strangle-oak was rare indeed, a wood so hard it was said to bend chisel-blades. An instrument made of strangle-oak would be light, and strong. And very, very expensive. She had never heard of a lyre being made from such valuable wood.
“Let us see if it likes your hand, Miss Serannon.” Yzell passed the lyre to her over his chair. “If it proves to be good, why, then I won’t need to make a lyre at all, for you can have this one. It’s new,” he added, “but it doesn’t fit my big hands. I should have thought of that before I made it, I suppose. Just one of those works that takes you, you know? I acquired the wood, and had to craft the instrument. Damndest thing.”
“It’s—beautiful!” Tabitha whispered. The wood felt alive under her fingers, so smooth it could have been made of silk, so light it almost floated in the air. The dark brown wood was tightly grained. Yzell had worked a gold symbol into the wood near the base, a flowing, delicate rune.
“Ah, that’s something I saw written on a musical score once. Strange music, no harmony I could find, but the symbol stayed with me. It just seemed to fit. Come on!” he encouraged. “Play it, feel if it holds a tune for you.”
“What shall I play?” Tabitha asked, nervous of having to perform in front of Stormhaven’s master instrument-maker.
“Sing the Glee, it’s been long since I’ve heard it played well.”
He’s forgotten his headache, Tabitha thought.
“Are you sure?”
“Certain.” He raised his arms, as if to introduce her to the crowds.
From the moment she plucked the first string, Tabitha knew that the lyre she held was special. A resonant, perfect note trembled through the wood. She couldn’t hope to match the music of the lyre, but she could try.
She raised her melody as her voice warmed. It felt good to sing again. An age had passed since she had last performed for anyone. She immersed herself in the ballad of Creation.
Yzell burrowed beside the door for a moment, and returned with a rascal’s grin. He set a glass wine bottle on the bare floor. Tabitha raised her eyebrows, but did not falter. The Glee of Genesis was compelling, pulling her along in the current, toward the waterfall she knew was coming, where notes and song would climax. She took a step away from the bottle.
The song coursed through the air with an eldritch power. The notes seemed cleaner than she had ever sung them before—she had a refined sense of when she struck the perfect resonance, and she used the feeling to guide her song. The lyre offered faultless notes. She wondered if the strange clarity in the music had something to do with the Ring. The walls of Yzell’s workshop seemed to dissolve before the music, as if she was generating waves of pure sound.
It feels like I am singing to all of Eyri.
She reached the ascent, the final note of the Genesis, the Shiver.
The glass wine bottle shattered to a hundred pieces. The song faded. The instrument-maker lay on the floor.
Yzell clutched his head in his hands. “Blast-ed, blast-ed, mother-of-all-Dwarrow-banes!”
“I’m so sorry,” Tabitha said, kneeling beside the musician. “I didn’t mean to—oh dear!” She layed a hand on his shoulder.
“Nonsense!” Yzell exclaimed, his fierce expression at odds with his crossed eyes. “That was brilliant. Brilliant! Ah, my head feels worse than the bottle. Oh, oh, oh.” He staggered to his feet, and hung onto the chair like an old man.
“How do you -?” he began, then grimaced.
“The glass breaks every time if you sing the note pure,” Tabitha filled in.
“Not that,” Yzell muttered, straightening from the chair. “The way you sing, it gets under the skin, under everything, like it was setting the world to moving with your tune. Never heard nothing like it.”
Tabitha didn’t have an answer for him. She had felt it too, the strange intensity to the music. She had begun to think it was her own imagination.
Yzell regarded her with an almost steady gaze. “I swear that if you sang that note any better, you would be walking in the footsteps of the Goddess, singing like mythical Ethea.”
Tabitha couldn’t hold his eye; the praise was too great. She watched the floorboards instead.
“The strangle-oak. It’s yours,” she heard him say.
“But I –”
“I would be honoured to know that one with your talent played my instrument.”
The honour he bestowed upon her with those words was even more valuable than the lyre itself. She threw her arms around the eccentric musician, and kissed him on the cheek. He stepped away quickly.
“Got to finish this dratted trumpet,” he said, but he was smiling broadly as he stalked away.
“Thank you, for the lyre,” said Tabitha, “I shall always treasure it.”
“You ever change your mind about the Lightgifting, you come here and tell me,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s work aplenty for one with your voice. Now be off, I’ve much to do!” He buried himself in a pile of timber and tools.
Tabitha backed slowly to the door. “Good day, Yzell!” she called out above the sounds of his rummaging. “
And thank you.”
“Leave the front door closed,” came his reply.
She took that to mean that his headache was worse than he cared to admit. His prices would be very high that afternoon.
She couldn’t avoid disturbing the chimes on the way out, but she took care to close the door to the Den of Notes quietly.
The mist was still thick in the street, the cobbles damp underfoot. She tucked the lyre under her arm.
The City Gates must be nearby. From there, I can work my way inwards through Stormhaven.
It was turning out to be a wonderful day.
Kirjath paced the Kingsbridge. It had been infuriating to find the heavy guard at the City Gates, more Swords than he had expected. They stopped every visitor to Stormhaven. They had opened a carriage before his eyes, looking under the seats and through the barrels and goods, despite the carriage-owner’s objections. They were even lifting cloak-hoods, revealing squawking sparse-haired crones and indignant nobles to the daylight. No one was spared from scrutiny.
Stormhaven was on guard against something. News of his beast must have come down from First Light. They were scared.
The presence of the thorough guard forced him to reconsider his hasty plan. Maybe he could use the Dark essence to hide his approach, with Silence and Shadow, but he doubted he could pass through the guard without detection, they would notice something moving through their ranks. An attack on the Sword would only raise the alarm, and make stealth in the city an impossibility. He needed time to find the girl in Stormhaven. He couldn’t have tinpots chasing him through the streets.
Maybe the girl isn’t in the city.
Then the song hit him. He almost stumbled to his knees, but managed to retain his balance and not draw attention to himself. Somebody was singing, and it pierced his ears like a hot skewer. Nausea rushed through him. It was worse than the first time he had heard her sing.
Music like no other. It pounded though his head, making itches run across his scalp. He felt as if he would burst with revulsion.
He cast his doubts aside, and strode back toward the City Gates.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 33
