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

by Greg Hamerton

  Strangely, Ashley seemed to have been mulling over the same possibility as Tabitha.

  “Alight, messenger, and deliver your word,” he said aloud, and extended his hand. The words sounded hollow and disrespectful in the presence of the Sage. The figure didn’t move.

  “Who could be more worthy of receiving the Sage’s message than those in service of the Light?” Ashley asked, as if by way of explanation.

  How does he know I was feeling unworthy?

  She stepped away from Ashley, suddenly nervous of being close to his uncanny prescience. She approached the figure of the Sage, and scrutinised the fine weave of the sprites. They formed a near-perfect surface, smooth and continuous, from where the robe touched the floor, to the crown of his head, from fingertip to fingertip. Except in one place. There was a delicate twist to the sprites that were set in the centre of the Sage’s Lightstone. She reached out, and touched the Heart-rune there. The Sage collapsed over her hand. Sprites scattered and tumbled in a cascade of sparks. The perfect form of the spell was broken. The many pieces of the spectre shattered on the stone beneath her feet.

  She almost cried out in surprise. She hadn’t meant to destroy such a wonderwork. She hadn’t wanted to ravage the ancient treasure of the Dovecote’s Heart. Curiosity had drawn her forwards, and she had gone far further than she ever should have dared. If the spell had been a messenger, then she lacked the skill to receive it, for there was only silence.

  Or was it near-silence, with the tiniest disturbance nibbling on the edge of the quiet?

  My breathing? Ashley’s?

  It was a little sound, like the gurgle of water in a gutter, or the patter of a beetle’s feet across a leaf. But when she focused on it and used the power of the Ring to clarify what she heard, the faintest whispering voice came to her ears. There was a message after all.

  “—for only you who wears the Ring could hear my word, or find this place. I know the ways of the Ring so well, and I miss its power every day, but that is why I must warn you, Seeker, and hope –”

  “Tabitha –”

  “Shh!”

  “—it must be refused, as early as it can be. I left it too long, I learned too much from its second sight, so much turned to goodness I never thought—”

  “What is it?” Ashley interrupted again.

  “Shh! I’m listening.”

  “But there’s nothing –”

  “Shh! Be quiet. Please!”

  “—that I had to cut my own finger from my hand, for the bond of the Ring was too strong. I refused where the path led, I still refuse it, for to find the wizard, you must walk the darkest path. To turn on all that I have created, and declare it only half of my whole, would make a mockery of the Dovecote and all the principles of goodness. I have banished the Riddler and his furry familiar from us, for it is him that leads me to this darkness as much as the Ring he has helped me to understand. I knew the sign of the Heart would draw you here as it drew me to many truths and temptations. Beware of the Heart-rune’s lure, for it marks the path of the Seeker and may not lead to goodness.”

  The Sage’s delicate whisper ended. Tabitha dared not breathe, in case there was more to the message. Her caution was wise.

  “I can only hope you heed me in time, Seeker. Take it from your hand, and destroy it in a better way than I employed. If you are here, then the depths of Amberlake were not deep enough.”

  The silence that followed was complete.

  The weight of the words she had witnessed descended upon Tabitha Serannon with the force of a mountain. There was too much to accept at once, but one thing was clear : the message had been intended only for one who bore the Ring. The rock beside her bare feet was speckled with the failing glimmer of sprites. She watched them for a long time.

  “Tabitha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you finished hearing voices?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to Ashley, where he stood with the pale remnants of flame above his palm. It was not going to be long before that spell gave out as well.

  “What did the messenger say? It was a messenger, wasn’t it?”

  “We have to go, Ashley. Your Flicker is going out.”

  “Is it? Everything is still so bright.”

  “There is some essence on the floor, maybe you can summon that.”

  He did so. When incorporated into his Flicker spell, the sprites made the chamber slightly less dim. She guided him from the chamber by his arm.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Their return seemed infinitely quicker than their arrival had been. Tabitha didn’t relent when they reached the main stairs, but pulled Ashley onward until they were at the head of the staircase, below the exit to the Hall of Sky. The darkness crept ever closer as Ashley’s flame faded.

  “Release your essence, I’ve got to open the seal,” she instructed.

  “Are you going to tell me what the Sage said?”

  “Ashley! Now is not the time to be churlish with me. I need the sprites.”

  “I’m being churlish? I took the risk of this quest as well, you know. Look at me! I’ve been blinded, who knows when it shall fade? I have borne a greater cost than you. I deserve to be told the secret we came to discover.”

  “I can’t.” She searched his face for some sign of sympathy, but saw only bitterness. “The secret was only for me.”

  “Are you so special, because you have sharper eyes, and ears?”

  He couldn’t have come much closer to the truth.

  “Something like that,” she said miserably. She couldn’t begin to explain the Ring to Ashley while the dark consumed his last few sprites. She knew the Sage had not intended the words for anyone but her—the Seeker, the holder of the Wizard’s Ring. The trap Ashley had triggered proved that beyond doubt.

  “I will tell you what I can,” she promised. “When I can.”

  “That is small comfort.” He did break his command of the Flicker spell though. He offered the sprites to Tabitha.

  It was awkward to reach the slab from beneath, for part of it was blocked by the rocker arm. When she had the four sides of the outline completed, there was nothing left of the sprites in Ashley’s hand. Tabitha hung on the ring overhead and the seal gave way with a quiet suck.

  The paleness of the moonlit Hall was a welcome sight over the rim of the square stone. Tabitha worked her hands onto the top of the marble slab. It took all of her weight to depress it to the ground. She guided Ashley closer.

  “Give me a leg-up,” she whispered. He cupped his hands and braced himself without a word. He was still angry, she could tell.

  Once she had shimmied up to the floor level above, she reached down and guided Ashley’s hands to the rim. He pulled himself awkwardly up. The stone under his feet seemed to offer some assistance, and when he rolled clear of the hole, the marble slab thudded up to the surface. When the sprites sealed the edges they were lost beneath the floor of the Scribbillarre. The way to the Heart was closed, the fit was seamless.

  The Dovecote was asleep. It was the deepest hour of the night, and even the moon was resting on the western horizon, beyond the tall lower windows of the Hall.

  “You’ve got the sprites?” Ashley asked.

  “No,” Tabitha answered, in a small voice. She realised that she should have summoned them before they had escaped past the trapdoor. They had no essence to activate the secret doors to reach their respective bedrooms. They could not leave the Hall of Sky without leaving an unbolted door behind. The Rector would know that someone had been out.

  Ashley was the first to recover.

  “The oak doors can be opened from this side. Open the men’s side, and I can find my way to my room. You can take some sprites from the sconce. Then close the door from this side again, and go through the side-door to your rooms.”

  It was a good plan. Tabitha was grateful for Ashley’s quick thinking, and felt all the more m
iserable about his mistrust of her. They ghosted to the door in silence. Ashley held a hand out all the way, as if he did not rely on Tabitha’s lead.

  The bar set across the men’s door was secured by a pin, which came out quietly enough. But the bar itself was heavy, and it was awkward to stabilise and lift clear. The hinges creaked.

  Nothing moved.

  Tabitha led Ashley part of the way to his room, collected a handful of essence from the wall sconce, and returned to the Hall.

  The Dovecote was still wonderfully peaceful, but Tabitha’s pulse was not. Her feet were heavy with the dread of discovery. She endured the creaking of the door with a grimace, but then it was closed, and the bar in place, quieter than she could have hoped. It was the metal pin that let her down. In her haste, she did not grip it firmly enough, and it clattered to the floor. She scooped it up, thrust it into the securing hole, and fled across the Hall.

  The sprites she spread on the secret door were already drained and pale, having been taken from a sconce which had offered illumination to the men’s corridor all through the night. She should have anticipated the weakness of the Light, and taken more, but hindsight wouldn’t open the door. The sprites made an attempt to break the seal, but in doing so merely drained themselves of their energy, and fell to the floor as clear essence.

  Tabitha was driven by the fear at her heels.

  If she opened the women’s door and took all the sprites from the sconces in that corridor, she could return and close the door properly, then unseal the side-door. It was her only hope for remaining undiscovered.

  She worked the wedge out from above the bar in the big oak door, tapping it from side to side. She was lifting the heavy bar to free the door when she heard the soft rustle of clothing behind her. She froze.

  Footsteps approached, halted.

  She dared not turn. She knew she would scream if she did. She eased the bar slowly down to where it had been, and held onto it tightly. There was nothing else to do.

  “So it is you, Miss Serannon, who has found a way to jimmy my locks.” The Rector’s voice was made all the more terrifying by its falsely pleasant tone. Blood pounded in her ears.

  “I give you a chance to show yourself worthy of one day becoming a Lightgifter, and how is my mercy repaid? By sin?”

  The heat of Shamgar’s anger pressed against her back.

  “What do you have to say?”

  “I am sorry, Rector.” It was a hopeless plea, but it was all that came to her confused and panicked mind.

  How much did he see? How much does he know?

  “You are sorry? You violate the oldest of the Dovecote codes, the vow of chastity, and you are sorry? Which failed man has been your prey tonight, I wonder?”

  Chastity? What is he on about?

  “I slept with no man tonight, Illumination.”

  “Your time for playing the fool with me is over. I heard the door to the men’s corridor being closed. I know you were there tonight. And when all the tall tales have been told and retold, the truth of it comes down to one thing. Rutting.”

  Tabitha felt her face colour, but she didn’t turn, or answer back. Now was not a good time to defy the Rector. She wished she were made of essence, so she could just shake to pieces, and be swallowed by the floor.

  “Please forgive me, Illumination.”

  “Forgiveness is born of service, and good behaviour,” he retorted, “both of which you have offered in short supply. Turn around.”

  She let go of the oaken bar, the only support left in her world. She turned on leaden feet, and faced the consequence of her actions.

  Rector Shamgar was remarkably calm. He even favoured her with a spectral smile. But his eyes were strangely clouded, as if deep, hungry fires burned in his soul.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  He turned on his heel, and strode to the broad staircase. Tabitha had no option but to follow him. She couldn’t risk his anger. She had defied his command already. They climbed the stairs up to the third floor.

  “Wait here.”

  She was placed outside a heavy door, close to the Rector’s rooms. The Rector returned with a key, which he turned in the lock beside her. The door protested when he shouldered it open, then swung back on aching hinges. What the room contained, could not be seen in the darkness.

  “I have not had to use this room of solitary confinement for eleven years,” said the Rector, looking down his nose at her. “Know that you are the first to need such discipline in over a decade of the Dovecote. You tarnish the record by your presence. Reflect on that while you atone. If you try to call out to anyone, it is me who shall come, and it is not sympathy you shall find. Only in deprivation will you appreciate what it was you were offered in the Dovecote. Only in atonement will you find the chance for grace. Then we may begin with your service, and the behaviour needed for you to find my mercy.”

  The Rector pushed her away, through the door and into the dark. Disturbed dust assaulted her nostrils.

  She couldn’t think of one word in her defence. The truth of her actions would be seen as more sinful than the lie Rector Shamgar believed.

  “In time, I shall come to ask you again of the men you have lain with. See to it that you have an answer for that question, if you wish to ever leave this room.”

  The door was slammed very hard. The key turned in the lock. The darkness was complete.

  26. GOOD TIDINGS

  “If you gift a light to someone,

  where does the darkness go?”—Zarost

  The Darkmaster had already retired for the day when the flutter of wings interrupted him. He hadn’t been asleep, but he didn’t wish to be disturbed in his private chambers. Dawn was about to break outside, and he was irritated by the failure of his Shadowcasters to slip through the line of Swords. The invaders could be held off indefinitely at the bridge, that was not the problem. They would never gain access to the vale of Ravenscroft while he did not wish them to. But while they were massed at the edge of his domain, his own Shadowcasters could not get out, which meant a critical task could not be achieved. He pushed himself up from his pillows.

  His new apprentice stood at the foot of the bed, his pale face glowing with earnest dedication. He held a tattered white dove with many feathers missing on his hand. The apprentice was trying to hide his giggling.

  “The Morrigán have been playing again,” the boy said.

  Cabal grunted. There had been a time when he would have laughed, but it was not amusing when the messengers that were now intended for him, became as bedraggled as this Courier, or sometimes lost completely. He couldn’t break the Morrigán of their habit.

  “Take your miserable backside out of my room!” Cabal ordered.

  The apprentice bobbed his head, deposited the dove on the blankets, and ran for the door, giggling. He still believed it was all a game. Cabal waited until the door was closed, and all was quiet, before turning to the small white dove.

  “Alight, messenger, deliver your word.”

  The sprites stung. He endured the discomfort. There could be only one Lightgifter who would be bold enough to send a message direct to the Darkmaster. The voice released by the Courier was smooth and supercilious.

  “I have deigned to oblige you. The girl has been isolated from the others, in a way none will question. She can be held indefinitely, but every day shall cost you the price of the contract again, in advance.”

  Cabal closed his eyes, and reigned in his anger at the double-cross.

  The Lightgifter liked to believe in his superiority and independence, which is why he could never be relied upon, and why his price was always the highest. It had been out of urgency that Cabal had considered the Lightgifter at last. But the task had been done.

  Held indefinitely.

  It had a nice sound. The girl was out of the way. The gates to Ravenscroft could be opened, and his plan could be set into motion. But to have the girl a prisoner in the Dovecote was not enough, and it would turn out to be
more costly than necessary.

  He rose abruptly, and paced through the darkness of his room. Smooth gravel crunched underfoot, easing his mind with the sound of breaking bones.

  The solution tied in so well with his plans that he laughed out loud when it presented itself.

  He had almost forgotten about the one who hid. The report of the broken man had come to him the previous night. Cabal hadn’t been able to think of a use for the wastrel, but he would be desperate to regain favour, desperate enough to obey his Master’s word completely. He was beyond the line of Swords. Now that the girl was held, a simple task could be set for the shattered minion, a task a child could complete.

  In the headboard of Cabal’s bed was a collection of black crystals, resting in holes where they could better absorb the presence of the Darkmaster. He picked a slim Darkstone from the spread, one of the oldest, one to which his connection was as certain as an iron leash. He threaded a chain through the ring at its apex, and cast a spell over the chain’s clasp. Primed with the Master’s word, it would seal when closed around someone’s neck. The Darkstone would confer just a taste of what the Dark had to offer, yet a taste was all anyone needed. He would have another Shadowcaster.

  Cabal summoned motes to his hand, and wove a Morrigán. When it had left with the Darkstone, he dressed, and strode from his rooms. He roused the Shadowcasters from their beds with a far-reaching jolt of cold. They would know to come to the Cavern.

  There was a real battle to prepare for, at last.

  27. THE DARKEST NIGHT

  “The greater the bridge,

  the higher the toll to cross it.”—Zarost

  Garyll stared into his gruel. All that could be said for it, was that it was hot. Three days, this the fourth, and still the icy wind tore through their camp.

  It was not his manner to dwell upon failure, but that was all he had achieved since reaching the chasm. There was little to look forward to in this day, except another tragedy of fruitless endeavour on the Wall. The wind, always the wind, whistling into his ears, telling him he couldn’t do it, he should stay where he was, he was too weak, he was tired and cold and sore. It was an incessant, maddening whisper, and to escape its effect he had to deny every statement he heard.