Abandon yourself to the wildness. Taste the blood of your wounds, fuel your anger. Savour the violence, learn to return it. You could beat this rapist, beat him to a bloody pulp. So much power awaits.
What was worse than the thoughts themselves, was the realisation that they came to her not in the Darkmaster’s voice, but in her own. The Darkstone was infecting her with its warped perspective.
Kirjath ran his tongue up her neck. “Enjoy it, like all the other dark-whores.” Tabitha wanted to vomit.
You could command the Dark, if you would just accept it.
Her leg pulled free of the spell-binding, and she kicked the Shadowcaster. He cursed and immobilised her feet with more Dark essence. He pushed his body between her legs, his eyes alight with hunger.
“Whore.” It was a statement, not an insult.
“Quiet,” hissed a voice from the chapel side of the door. “Company.”
The Shadowcaster paused in his ravishing, one hand on her breast. His smell was cloying, his nearness terrifying. It was difficult to keep even a small part of her attention on what was occuring in the chapel.
“Who admitted you here, woman?” The Rector’s muffled voice was indignant.
“Been told you have need for a cleaner, so to show you how well I clean came I.” The cleaner, whoever she was, had a sing-song voice, deep for a woman’s.
“Out! We have no need for cleaners. Out I say!”
“Dust and cobwebs, dirty walls, I’d like to –”
“Take your broom and get out!” There was a scuffle, a solid thump of wood, another thump, then quiet.
Tabitha returned her terrified attention to the Shadowcaster. His hands had paused in their dreadful caress. His eyes were unfocused again, searching the chamber as if following the flight of a fly.
The door was flung open. A figure in a cinnamon dress appeared. She brandished a broom as she strode into the chamber. Her face was hidden behind a veil, but some of her tangled black hair protruded from her misplaced headpiece.
The Shadowcaster didn’t seem to notice the newcomer, even when her broom cracked against his skull. Kirjath Arkell slumped to the floor.
Tabitha didn’t recognise the cleaner. A pale butterfly flitted about her head, and settled atop the headpiece.
“Never did like these little places,” the woman said. “Always mischief in these kind of rooms, men up to no good when they should be praying.”
The woman eyed her critically, taking in Tabitha’s torn clothing and her shocked gaze. The cleaner removed Tabitha’s gag, then her eyes fell on Tabitha’s throat. Tabitha covered the Darkstone in shame, but the cleaner shushed her and held her close. Her bound wrists were untied.
“You’re safe from them now, child.”
The tears came in a flood.
Tabitha clung to the woman. She cried until she could no more. Relief left her weak, and she hung on a while longer, until she had gathered will enough to be sure that she could stand on her own.
The woman was very strong, and seemed to be able to support Tabitha’s weight indefinitely. Yet Tabitha knew she could not afford to faint into the cleaner’s arms, for the Dark was still cutting into her ankles. The binding spell that Arkell had cast held firm, and could not be untied like the ropes. Not by a cleaner, at any rate.
Tabitha drew away from the woman, and noticed that she had removed her own veil. She appraised the lean, weathered features of her face, the ill-fitting dress, and the surprisingly large breasts. The face looked different without its beard. A wide, riotous black and white beard, if she remembered correctly.
“Zarost! Twardy Zarost!”
The Riddler looked forlorn. “I said you’d make a fine riddler, said I. How did you know?”
“Your breasts are lopsided.”
Zarost looked sheepishly at his costume. He adjusted the right breast to be level with the left, and fiddled with their support binding.
“How do women do anything with these weights on their chests?” he said, looking vexed.
Twardy Zarost! If she had ever doubted his allegiance before, he had proved it now. He was no servant of the Darkmaster. He had saved her from the worst moment of her life, and struck down the Shadowcaster in the process. Tabitha felt her spirit lighten. The Riddler was a lifeline, pulling her from the sea of despair. Twardy Zarost, with a touch of colouring worked into the skin around his eyes, and the huge false breasts.
“They aren’t usually ... um ... so big,” Tabitha replied.
“Ah, I see. But for me, they are perfect.” He brightened. “Men see this chest,” he said, swelling his bust proudly, “and they don’t look too closely at anything else. The rude Rector who lies in the chapel will remember nothing but that he was attacked by a pair of breasts with a broom. He may have trouble explaining that to anyone who cares.”
The pain in her legs reminded her that her rescue was not yet complete.
“Twardy, can you do anything to the motes that bind me?”
His expression sobered. “I don’t have the orb for either Dark or Light.”
She hastily repaired her clothing. She secured her skirt with the cord which had bound her wrists. Knotting the loose fabric at her waist offered her a makeshift, low-cut blouse.
A scuffled sound gave the Shadowcaster away as he moved on the floor. Zarost whirled, and raised his broom above his head.
A sudden hope rushed through Tabitha. “Twardy, wait!” she cried, but the staff had already fallen, and the Shadowcaster lay still.
“Always takes two strikes with a broom. Always. Never worked out why.”
“Damn. I was hoping you could force him to release this spell.” She jerked her leg against the restraint of Dark.
“Force a Shadowcaster? And how could I have done that?”
“You could have tortured him, until he gave in. Shadowcasters understand pain well.”
“Torture?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow. “You really have changed since I last saw you.”
Zarost was right.
What was I thinking?
Zarost looked uncomfortable. “No, I can do nothing more. You called, and I came, and these men stood in my way. But now, now you must decide which path you take to escape the fate that you brought upon yourself.” He smiled broadly.
I should have known he would become cryptic.
She picked on the one thing she had understood.
“When did I call you?” She had wished it, but had never found the means, as far as she could remember. Yet here he was, riddles and all.
“You mean this was an accident?” he asked, his eyebrows leaping away from startled eyes. He raised a hand to his headpiece, and brought it back down with the fingers extended. On his hand, a leaf balanced, then parted to form two coloured leaves, joined at their centre. Rainbow markings upon translucent wings.
“You got it!” she exclaimed. “I thought—I thought it was a real butterfly. I thought it couldn’t be directed.”
“Real it is, as real as you or I, though it is as fresh as the morning dew, and it has lived for only a day. Yet every moment of its life seems to hold one purpose, the same it must have been given at the moment of its birth. To find the man you wished to call. Well, here I am.” He bowed theatrically, and his breasts rode up under his chin. They remained too high when he straightened. Tabitha was too excited at what rested on his finger to comment.
“How did you ever know what I wanted, little thing?”
“You mean you did not command it to do so?” asked Zarost.
“I had no idea. It was an afterthought, when I was frustrated that the Lifesong had not created what I had hoped.”
“Ah –” he said at length.
“Ah, what?” she asked, after he did not appear to be continuing.
“Ah, you are the kind that stumbles upon things, without needing to understand too much of how they work. That is a most dangerous kind, but could be just the kind that is needed.”
“The kind of what?”
The Riddler seemed to catch himself musing. His expression became the enigmatic mask she was used to—the cheerful, infuriating grin of Twardy Zarost.
“All in good time. First, you have a riddle to solve that is not of my making. Come, we must leave this place.” He extended his hand for Tabitha to take.
It was just beyond reach. Her feet were bound just as firmly as ever, and the cold cut into her ankles like knives pressed against the bone.
“What am I supposed to do? You can see I am trapped by the bonding spell.” Tabitha knew she was being abrupt, but she had neither the patience nor the strength to endure another one of Zarost’s riddles. He remained silent. She began to believe that he really wasn’t going to assist. After pretending to rescue her, he was just going to stand by.
Maybe he really can’t do anything about the motes.
She had an idea, and summoned the Light essence, calling and extending her will as far as she could, but the Dovecote’s sprites had been taken that morning and only two sprites spun into her hand. She cast them at her bonds, and they neutralised two motes, fizzing against the Dark before they fell to the floor as clear essence. Her shackles were as strong as ever.
“It’s useless, Twardy. There’s no more Light.”
They waited in silence for a while, Tabitha looking miserable, and Zarost expectant, then agitated. Eventually the little man could bear it no longer.
“Ask a question of your Riddler, and maybe you’ll find an answer.”
“How can I release the Dark spell?” she tried, keeping the wording as direct as possible. She knew the Riddler’s manner well—he had the ability to slip around the truth like an eel evading capture.
“I have none, but you have two.”
She felt her face redden. “What has the fact I’m a woman got to do with it?”
He burst into laughter. “Not these!” he said, pushing his false breasts down inside his dress. He rocked on his feet with the strength of his guffaws. At last he drew enough breath to speak. “Not these.” He wiped tears from his eyes with one hand. “Oh, young Tabitha Serannon, I have missed your company.”
“How can I release the Dark spell?” she tried again. It was a thing she had learned about the Riddler—if you asked the same question, you gained a different answer, to a maximum of three. Sometimes it was the only way to unravel his riddles. Zarost’s shoulders stopped shaking, but his eyes still sparkled with mischief.
“To find the answer, you must walk the darkest path.”
The statement was uncannily familiar. The Sage had warned her of a similar thing. Tabitha felt a shiver creep up her spine. Thoughts of the Ring brought with them thoughts of severing her finger at the knuckle. She used her last question almost immediately, not wanting to consider the second answer too deeply.
“How can I release the Dark spell?”
“You bear both orbs.”
It was as direct as a sword thrust, and it stopped her heart just as effectively. Her fingers found the icy orb of the Darkstone, where it rested against its counterpart. “This is the Shadowcaster’s tool. This was forced upon me!” she declared in horror.
“As was the first orb, and yet you do not shy to use that.”
The motes. The Dark? I must command the Dark?
Tabitha was horrified. She could feel the chill of the Darkstone at her throat, she knew well enough it was there. But if she tried to command the Dark, in that moment she would be a Shadowcaster! The whispering voice that she had been trying to ignore returned.
I am the shadow and he is my master.
He is the shadow and I am his caster.
She bore the Darkstone. She had been orbed into the magic of the Dark. She could not believe what Zarost expected of her. As if reading her thoughts, he pointed to the Darkstone.
“You bear a powerful weapon, one they think to use against you. Master it, and you have a weapon of your own.”
“Can’t you take it off? Is there anyone who can remove it?” She knew the answer before she had finished the question. Zarost had explained the magic to her once before.
He shook his head, but then decided to expand on his answer. “Only the wizard, but not until you find her.”
“The wizard is a woman?”
“I think so.”
“How do I find the wizard, Zarost?”
He waggled a finger at her. “That question you have already asked, and gained the three answers.”
“But I am not going to find the wizard while I am shackled to this floor. Help me, Twardy. I’m a Lightgifter! I fight the Dark, I can’t accept the Darkstone, I can’t use the motes!”
Zarost was bouncing on his feet, as if standing on hot coals. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, doing anything but giving her clues.
“Help you? You don’t understand what you ask!” he cried, suddenly animated. “You can do it on your own, you must be able to do it on your own!” He gestured wildly with his hands, and the butterfly sought refuge in his hair once more. “You use the Light, yet haven’t been sworn to the Dovecote by the Rector, yes? So why not the Dark? Why not? Don’t make me break my oath for such a small challenge as this.”
“I don’t want to use the Dark. Ever,” she said.
“To fight the Dark is to give it power. Learn to master it, learn to use it before it uses you. I have said too much, I cannot say more.”
Tabitha knew that she was pushing the Riddler too far. Any moment now he would leave her again, and then she would be in worse trouble than he had spared her from. The Shadowcaster would awake, some time, and so would the Rector outside. What would happen after that did not bear considering.
She chewed over what the Riddler had said, and as she did, her thoughts darkened.
Use it before it uses you. You are not sworn to the Dovecote, yet use the Light. Why not the Dark? You bear both orbs.
It was hard to set aside the revulsion that she felt for the Darkstone, but when she did, the black whirlpool leapt up within her mind, eager to seduce her with its strength, pulling her into the darkness and cold within. The Master’s voice was loud in her ears, but she ignored the insistent mantra.
She reached out her hand, and there her will to summon the motes faltered. She knew the pattern and words to summon the Light, but the Dark was another strain of magic altogether.
He urges me to use the Dark, yet knows I have none of the lore. How am I supposed to learn it?
For a while she stood there and filtered through all Zarost had said for a second time. She tried to use the Ring to bring clarity to her thoughts. At first, drawing on the Ring just made her more aware of the pain in her ankles. She could isolate the individual sting of each mote where it bit into her skin, and the rustling voice of the Darkmaster became a roar in her ears. But despite how cold she felt, the Ring was warm, reassuring, pulling her forward on the path she had chosen.
The answer came with blinding suddenness. The Riddler had been the advisor to the Darkmaster for decades. He had to know. And with the Riddler, it seemed, it was just a matter of asking the right questions.
“What is the pattern used to summon the motes?”
Twardy Zarost smiled. “Have you ever seen the barrel they call the Dwarrow-wine?”
Tabitha nodded. Dwarrow had become the most popular request in the Tooth-and-Tale before she’d left it. “What of it?”
“The mark is never ever hid, the sigil’s branded on the lid.”
She knew it well. It was how they could tell if a barrel was true Dwarrow, or a cheap imitation that would leave the patrons sober and angry. The Dwarrow-sigil had never been properly imitated, for it was always cold to the touch, whereas the forgeries soon warmed, no matter how the forgers tried. Now she understood why. The sigil was the summoning pattern of the Dark.
The Lightgifters were forbidden to draw spell patterns on anything permanent, lest their guarded knowledge was exposed, and yet the Shadowcasters were so bold as to advertise their spells on wine barrels. The Dark h
ad been under everyone’s noses, and no Eyrian had really suspected it. People had already begun to associate the summoning pattern of the Dark with unforgettable nights of revelry.
She held the pattern in mind, and whispered similar words to that of the Lightgifter’s summoning. She hoped the motes were like the sprites, in that it was the pattern and will behind the command that was more important than the words themselves.
“Darkness, come to me.”
The motes were hers to command. The Dark essence pulled away from her ankles, leaving her skin tingling as her body-warmth returned. The motes collected in a roiling mass around her left hand, as if they were flies and her fingers were soiled with what flies love most. It was a sickly mix of pleasure and revulsion that lifted her stomach.
She was free to go.
I can summon the Dark!
Unaccustomed strength flooded into her veins. With the strength came a fierce hatred and consuming anger, at what the Shadowcaster had done, at what he had tried to do, at what he had done long before. She wanted to hurl the motes at the Shadowcaster crumpled on the floor. But first, she needed more from the Riddler. She could command the Dark, a cruel weapon.
“Tell me the pattern of the worst Dark spell, the one which hurts the most.”
She wanted to see Arkell’s unconscious body twitch, and to know that he would never awake. She wanted him to die. There was surely such a spell in the Dark lore, something so violent only the Darkmaster’s old advisor would know it.
Twardy Zarost grabbed her hand, and pulled her from the antechamber at that moment. She strained at his grip, but he was too strong for her, even with the lust for revenge coursing through her veins. He dragged her past the slumped form of the Rector. Another man she wished to kill.
“Zarost, you must tell me the spell. I demand it of my Riddler.”
His eyes were chips of stone, but she knew that she had found a leverage, for he ceased dragging her towards the chapel door. His grip did not loosen on her wrist, though.
“I will tell you when you have let the Dark go, if you still wish to know.”
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 53
