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

by Greg Hamerton

  “Ask him yourself, and you shall see. He claims to never lie, from what I have been told. So, Riddler, what shall you be—a liar, or admitted threat to the crown?”

  “Tell him, Twardy Zarost! Tell him you were never involved with the Dark. You came here to warn me.”

  Zarost held her eye, and spoke with deliberate care. “In riddles speak I, but never can lie.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Tell them, Twardy, or they’ll jail you.”

  Zarost’s eyes spoke volumes, but his lips were silent.

  Tarrok leered at the Riddler. “Do you deny that you were the advisor to the Darkmaster?”

  Tabitha gaped first at Tarrok, then at Zarost when he said nothing. Nothing at all.

  “By your silence, you admit your guilt!” Tarrok decreed.

  It felt as if a trapdoor had fallen away from Tabitha’s feet. She watched the Riddler’s face—defiant, his lips held taut, his gaze unrepentant. She could see it in his eyes, she could feel it with her special sense, she could touch it with the knowing of the Ring—it was true.

  The Riddler had come from the heart of the Shadowcasters.

  He must have tricked her from the first.

  “Take him away!” commanded Tarrok. “To the old King’s dungeon. I shall be questioning him later.”

  The Swords hauled Zarost away by his arms. He was facing Tabitha. His heels dragged on the ground.

  He tricked me, yet he cannot lie.

  “Were you trying to help me today?” she shouted after Zarost.

  “I tried, but perhaps I shouldn’t have! Now I cannot return, unless you summon me.” The Sword to his right jerked on his arm, and snarled a garbled warning at the Riddler.

  “If you face death, remember to shake and shiver!” he shouted. The Sword to his left struck him. He was silent after that.

  “How rats squeak when they’re caught. Come along, Miss Serannon,” Lethin Tarrok said, taking her arm in his sweaty paw. “You’re lucky we were in time to catch that rodent, before he led you astray. Men like the Riddler get in the way of important business. We mustn’t let you be delayed any further from your departure.”

  Tabitha followed him from the garden and down the street. She was still in shock. She had thought she understood the Riddler, despite his odd behaviour. He had been a rescuer, a teacher. In a way, a friend. Yet now, she felt betrayed.

  Her truthsense had never failed her. He came from the Shadowcasters. What if the Riddler had been trying to take her away in the first place, what if the wizard he was urging her to seek was the leader of the Dark? Maybe he was too afraid to handle the Ring, so he had tried to use her as the bearer.

  Facts were missing, the explanation didn’t work. He had saved her from the Shadowcaster.

  But what if that had just been rivalry amongst bounty-hunters?

  The conflicting theories swirled through her mind like an angry confluence of rivers, and she came no closer to a solution.

  Tarrok allowed a brief diversion to collect her bag and lyre from the Boarding, and to settle her account with the Matron, but he would not leave her side. He led her swiftly through the streets of Stormhaven.

  One course was clear before her. She would journey to the Dovecote in the royal carriage, and present herself to the Lightgifters.

  23. KINGSBRIDGE

  “History is made in that place

  where many paths converge.”—Zarost

  They let the horses drink. Ashley’s new mare blew heavily at the water. She was a sturdy beast, broad-chested and muscled. There was a world of difference between a Sword-horse and a Dovecote nag. The Swordmaster had seen to it that they all rode fresh mounts that morning, for their old ones were still being retrieved from above the waterfall in Fendwarrow. Glavenor had been adamant—if they were to ride, they would all ride fast horses. Ashley had heard no objections from the Swords of Fendwarrow. The Swordmaster was formidably persuasive when he was angry.

  A single purpose had unified them at dawn—to ride to Stormhaven, to bring the heavy burden of news before the King. The Gifters could attest to the matter of Dark essence, the Swordmaster would confirm the treasonous words. They would all tell of the vale they had seen, lest one of them be suspected of madness.

  They had agreed to continue the search for Hosanna and the Shadowcaster once they had brought the news before the King. A boat had gone missing from the Fendwarrow jetties. The Shadowcaster had escaped across the Amberlake, possibly to the King’s Isle itself.

  They had made good time on the road to Levin. From Kironkiln onwards, the dirt was hard-packed and smooth-worn from the passing of the regular clay-wagons, from Wendelnip on it became a stoneroad with a galloping track on the water side, without which they would have been slowed to a crawl by the added traffic of linen-and-garment merchants from Rhyme and Burke Manor.

  Levin towered above them to the north-east, tiers and tiers of pale walls and red-grey roofs, a termite’s mound of human endeavour. The Lightgifter’s Dovecote was visible near the crown of the hill, cinnamon shades worked into the soft sphere of stone. Keegan had sent a second Courier to the Rector from Fendwarrow at dawn, announcing their findings. But it remained unanswered, like the first sent from Southwind.

  Maybe the Rector thinks us mad, with the tales Keegan told. Morgloth and murder, ravens and the Vale of the Dark.

  The Dovecote seemed so close, yet Ashley knew their first duty was to the King. There would be time for talk with the Rector when they returned.

  Duty pressed on their shoulders, and they set off again. Ashley gritted his teeth against the aches. Too many days in the saddle had rubbed the inside of his legs to raw spots, rammed joints to bruising, and strained muscles to incessant stiffness. The Sword-horse’s powerful gait seemed designed to shake him apart.

  They turned left onto the Kingsbridge. The road led into the distance along the obsidian causeway, like a giant serpent stretched upon the lake. The nearer part was clear, but a great portion of the span was swallowed by the lingering mist. A league or more away, the highest domes and battlements of Stormhaven poked through the shroud.

  The sentry post was manned by Swords who watched them with a jaundiced eye. A change came over them as the Swordmaster approached. The sentries suddenly trimmed their stances.

  “Good morning, Swordmaster,” a junior Sword greeted, saluting with a fist raised to his chest.

  Glavenor returned the salute. “We have crossed swords in the training halls, have we not? What is your name?”

  “Jonan, sir. I trained with you last year.”

  “Well, Sword Jonan, I have a task for you and your companions. If you should see a man with a red cloak and burned skin, halt him at this post with all your force. His name is Kirjath Arkell, and we are tracking him for murder. And if any person comes here with a dark stone at their throat, or wearing a black cloak and having burn-scarred skin, treat them as traitors to the crown, and have them arrested.”

  “Dark stones sir? Shadowcasters? Yes, sir!” the junior replied. The other Swords stiffened as Garyll drew level with them.

  Garyll motioned to the Lightgifters to ride, and they passed onto the Kingsbridge with him. He brought his horse alongside Ashley’s. “I doubt that’ll do much, but it may close a hole we can’t afford to leave unstitched. The Shadowcaster is a fool if he tries the Kingsbridge, but it may be his last option.”

  * * *

  It was only when they burst into the sunlit courtyard of the Stables, that Lethin Tarrok at last slowed his pace. Tabitha felt instantly guilty at having kept everyone waiting. Six mounted Swords waited in the yard in rigid parallel. A black carriage gleamed, the driver ready atop, with two sleek stallions connected to the traces. The horses stamped on the cobbled yard with their iron-shod hooves.

  Maybelle Westerbrook was there as well. Tabitha turned to greet her.

  “On board, Miss Serannon!” said Tarrok. “They have all waited long enough in the sun for you.”

  “Must you be in such an in
cessant hurry!” Maybelle’s voice cut like a knife through the charged air. “Ever since the King mentioned that Tabitha has a more efficient manner than you do, you’ve been a most insufferable agitator. Don’t let him rush you, Tabitha.”

  Tabitha took the opportunity to approach May, and embrace her.

  “Goodbye May. Thank you for all you have done for me here.”

  May pulled away. “No, no, this is not goodbye. I shall be coming with you.”

  “What!” exclaimed Tarrok.

  “I have decided,” announced May, turning on the smaller man, “that Tabitha needs a better sort of company than you’ll provide on the way to Levin.”

  “But I shall not be going!” he explained. “She has them as escort.” He waved a dismissive hand at the Swords.

  “Well, that’s all the better then, for we shall travel with more pleasant company.”

  “But you’ll miss the execution of the Shadowcaster. It’s scheduled for sunset!”

  “We all want justice for that man, but I have no need to watch his death.”

  Tarrok looked as if he had trodden on a bee. “But you have duties to attend in the city, Lady Ceremony!” he objected.

  “And you think it your place to remind me!” said May, suddenly towering with anger. “You forget your place, court servant. I wish to travel to Levin, and shall be accompanying Miss Serannon in this carriage.”

  Lethin Tarrok made a strangled sound. “But you can’t!” he squawked. “The carriage is collecting supplies, it shall be full on the return.”

  “Then it shall have to take a lighter load,” May answered.

  “But I am not certain of the wheels!” he said, his hands fluttering in the air. “I’m not sure they shall bear your weight.”

  May gave him a hard look. Tarrok reddened.

  “Come on, Tabitha. It is time to leave.”

  Lethin Tarrok stared at them as they boarded, then leaned in and spoke loudly. “I am sure now that the Lady of Ceremony is travelling in this carriage that the journey will be a safe one.”

  Tarrok closed the door as firmly as he could without slamming it.

  “What was that about?” asked Tabitha.

  May spread her hands. “A rotten little man who wishes he were more.”

  The driver cracked his whip overhead.

  Tabitha had never been inside such a plush carriage before. It was a beautifully crafted cab—the black wood was polished to a shine, the cushions were wide enough to seat three on both the front and rear benches. The seats were fronted with panelling which suggested a storage space for travelling gear. The deep blue upholstery of the walls was studded with gold. Small, oval side windows offered a fleeting view of Stormhaven. Even the floor was carpeted. The only thing which marred the royal appeal was the faint odour of wine and smoke, which seemed to linger in the fabric of the seats.

  Tabitha sat close beside Maybelle Westerbrook. May gave Tabitha’s hand a gentle squeeze, then she reached into a bag at her side, and produced a folded blue garment.

  “A gift, for when you tire of the Gifter’s white or those travel-clothes you are wearing now,” she explained.

  Tabitha held it up. It was the dress she had worn to the King’s audience. She had returned it after the day, and had thought she would never see it again. It was the most elegant garment she had ever worn.

  She hugged May. No words were needed.

  May looked upon her kindly. “I knew your mother when she was young. I am sure you will become a fine Gifter, just like Trisha. You have her purity.”

  “Thank you, May.”

  Tabitha wished she had brought a gift for Lady Westerbrook. All she had with her were the contents of her bag, and her lyre. She would find something in Levin, she decided, and have it sent to Stormhaven.

  The scrolls, I should show her the song-scrolls.

  It would not be a gift, but an act of sharing that would display her trust. May would know the privacy of the writings were of special value. She drew the leather tube from her bag, and pulled the scrolls free.

  “These are the songs and spells my mother kept, the only thing to survive the fire. I thought you might like to see them.”

  May took the scrolls as if they were delicate.

  “You have played this music?” she asked, after glancing at the first sheet.

  “I haven’t dared to,” Tabitha answered. “There’s a warning on the last page which made me hold my tongue. I think Mother must have played them, at least once. I’ve sung something—similar.”

  Tabitha glanced out of the window as May pored over the scrolls. They were passing through the giant gates of Stormhaven, and a saluting sentry blurred past the carriage, followed by a queue of visitors to the city. Tabitha blinked against the brightness outside. A strong wind was chasing the last remnants of the morning mist, leaving sparkling chop on the water and a clear blue sky.

  “Forgive me for sounding ignorant,” May apologised, “but these patterns mean nothing to me. What are they for?”

  Tabitha looked over to where May held the second page upon her lap.

  “Those are patterns for a Lightgifter’s spells,” answered Tabitha. “It’s part of the way we command the essence—part is the word, part is the pattern you have to hold in thought. They’re not supposed to be drawn out like that—I think these are secret spells I’ll not be showing in the Dovecote. They are very aggressive for a Gifter.”

  The front bench creaked, once.

  “Trisha, aggressive? She must have changed in the years between us.”

  “Did you hear that?”

  Tabitha watched the closed front bench. Something had sounded odd, out of place. They passed over a rut in the road, and the door jumped on its hinges, then squeaks and rattles passed throughout the cab.

  She sighed. Just a bump in the road.

  “Those are very complicated patterns to remember,” Tabitha commented, “maybe she was scared she would lose the knowledge, because she never practised the spells. You’re right, I can’t imagine my mother using the Spriteblind spell on anyone.”

  May turned to the last page, and studied in silence.

  The carriage rocked in a steady rhythm to the beat of the horses hooves. But Tabitha’s nerves were on edge, and wouldn’t settle. Outside, there was nothing but the rim of the Kingsbridge, and the waters of the Amberlake, flecked by the rising wind. Inside, nothing but the two of them in the carriage.

  “Why are they risking a public execution for the Shadowcaster, when he’s got the power to raise a Morgloth?”

  May looked up sharply.

  “I suppose the Sword have got their reasons. I know they wanted to make an example of him, to discourage anyone else from repeating his crimes. They must have a terrible death planned. It is a good thing we are away from Stormhaven today.”

  “What if he escapes again?”

  “The Swords won’t make the same mistake again, now they know his danger.” May searched Tabitha’s face, then she reached out a comforting hand. “We’ve got Swords all around us, and soon you’ll be surrounded by Lightgifters. Relax. He has been caught. It is over.”

  Tabitha breathed out heavily.

  “I know, it’s just—the biting cold on my finger, sending shivers up my spine. This Ring,” she said, holding up the talisman she knew Maybelle couldn’t see. “It deepens my sense of when things are right, and when they are wrong.” She brought her hand to her mouth. “Something is horribly wrong.”

  There was another loud creak in the front bench. Tabitha’s heart skittered within her chest.

  Inside the carriage.

  The carriage ran smoothly over the unbroken road surface.

  “May—” Tabitha began.

  She didn’t finish her sentence. The lid of the front bench flew open. A cruel face with yellowed eyes and a feverish grin emerged.

  * * *

  Kirjath acted with speed. He had perhaps a slim second before one of them would scream, but that was time enough. The twinne
d spells of Silence flickered away from his hands, and claimed his victims. He crippled their voices as they were drawing breath. He grinned at the girl, and shocked her with more Dark essence, a painful Freeze just for the pleasure of seeing her writhe. The fat lady rose in her seat, and raised her arm threateningly. He smirked, and planted one foot against her chest. He kicked her back into place, giving her a taste of the Freeze as well. Her head cracked against the back of the carriage, and her legs went slack, but her eyes remained open and vaguely focused. He altered the Freeze, concentrating the motes in only one part of her body. As the blood cooled in her heart, it would beat slower and slower.

  He scowled at the fat lady’s hopeless expression, and wondered if she could have any use at all. Lady of Ceremony—she would fetch a good ransom. But that alone did not make her indispensable, and it was too complicated an affair to arrange.

  The flashing water of the Amberlake confirmed his guess; they were clear of the Isle, and a good way along the Kingsbridge.

  The girl reached for the door-handle, but he caught her hand with his left. He twisted her wrist, until she made a good pretence at screaming, her mouth wide. The Silence held, and she made no sound. He continued to twist. She scrabbled onto the floor, turning to save her arm, until she sat at his feet, facing the fat lady, her arm twisted up past her chin.

  A little further, and it will break.

  “Something is horribly wrong,” he mimicked, breathing into her ear. He surprised himself with his own laugh—a cackling, sickly sound like a hoarse turkey.

  Be cursed! Too much jurrum.

  Too much strain as well, keeping the Morgloth at bay. It had been hours now. And the distance grew ever more.

  “Move, and your arm breaks,” he warned. “And you, fat lady. Try anything, and your friend here will have a useless arm of shattered bone.”

  He eased the lid of his bench down, and sat, the girl still held in the armlock.

  As if it matters. She won’t live for long.

  The view was quite pleasant, really, if a little bright. Travelling in a royal coach was something he could definitely get used to. He reached over with his free hand and clawed the curtains closed. The wind and the noise of the horses would take care of the rest. This was his moment, and nothing was going to distract him from savouring the victory. There had been so little to savour of late, and a great debt of misfortune to be repaid.