She glared at him, trying to identify the taint of a lie in his words. Her sense for truth never failed her when she could look into someone’s eyes, but as always with the Riddler, she could find no untruth. His golden-flecked brown eyes were steady. She had to believe him. So she tried to release her command of the motes, and found a strange reluctance in her heart.
“Let them go,” Zarost urged, his voice gentle but firm. “Release the pattern.”
The summoning pattern dominated her mind, given form by her desire, hardened by her anger, waiting to be changed, turned into a spell. There was strength in the motes, power waiting to be unleashed, calling to her to claim her rightful command of all she could dominate, to use her new skills to get what she wanted. And the voice, one she had forgotten, but which had not forgotten her.
I am the shadow and he is my master.
He is the shadow and I am his caster.
She recoiled, realising her present danger just in time. The presence of the Darkmaster had seeped into her mind, filled the corners she was not aware of. Any longer and she would be on her knees, begging to become an accepted Shadowcaster, begging to give her power away to the man who waited for her in Ravenscroft.
She cleared her mind, and the motes fell to the floor with a soft susurrus. With the departure of the Dark, the lusts and anger left her too.
When Twardy Zarost released her hand, she knew she would not press her last question any more. Somehow, he had understood what she was going through.
She was not a killer. She reached for the door, and they ran from the chapel.
When they burst out into the sunlight and grass, she allowed the Riddler to guide her. He led her away from the Dovecote, toward the streets of Levin.
“Wait!” she called, suddenly realising what she was leaving behind. The chance of an apprenticeship to the Light was gone, it had never been. But her lyre was in her room in the women’s wing, along with her boots, her money and the clothes she had worn from Stormhaven. The rest could be replaced, but the lyre was too valuable to discard.
When she explained her need to Zarost, he offered less resistance than she had expected. “You choose your own path. I shall wait for you a moment.”
She went to retrieve her things, all the while fearing that the Rector had recovered and would come around a corner while she ran. The Dovecote corridors were empty, and the building echoed with her hurried footfalls. When she reached her room and lifted the lid of her chest, she was greeted by an altogether different horror.
Her possessions were packed as neatly as ever, but there was a bare space where she had hidden her money. She took everything from the chest, yet still there was no sign of the coin-strings. She searched through the other chests in the room. She looked behind and under the beds. Her money was gone.
All that remained was one gold coin and some change which she had kept in a pocket inside her woodsman’s trousers. Her inheritance had been stolen, by someone in the Dovecote. She added that fact to the list of crimes against the Rector Shamgar’s name. It hurt something wicked to realise she had lost her parent’s wealth. She forced those thoughts from her mind. She would tell Garyll, when he returned from Ravenscroft. There was nothing she could do now.
She collected her things, and ran.
She found the Riddler hiding behind a tree near to where she had left him. Soon they were rushing downhill between tall buildings. Some Levinners paused in their activity to watch the strange couple. Twardy had raised his veil again. Tabitha wondered how many of the men would only remember something with a broom and a very large pair of breasts passing by. Some of the men followed them with a wistful, longing look.
When they slowed to a walk to attract less attention, Twardy still drew the odd wolf-whistle. It seemed the Riddler’s costume was a better disguise than she would have guessed. She wondered if Zarost’s wisdom was due to his experience as a man, or his experience of men.
He led them to a stable.
A familiar cart lay unhitched beside the wall, and in a stall stood a sturdy grey horse, dozing in her nosebag.
“Blazey!”
The horse nickered, and Tabitha stepped into the stall to rub her hand over her thick coat, and down her muzzle. Blazey nosed her good-naturedly.
“Take her and ride like the wind,” Twardy said, removing the nosebag. He tacked her up and connected her to the traces. “Stormhaven is the only place that is safe for you, Seeker. The Darkmaster is too strong for you to be close to yet. You have much to study, and very little time. The library holds much more than the books on its shelves. Use all that you have to find the wizard. Maybe you’ll learn the next step on your path soon enough.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I answered your call, and will return, but there is something urgent I must attend to—elsewhere.”
He reached under his shirt, and liberated a melon. He extended the second one to Tabitha.
“Uh ... no thanks.”
“Fruit so fresh from the wharf market? Take it for the horse, she loves the melonskin.”
Tabitha hefted the melon into the back of the cart.
“I shall see you in Stormhaven, before the inner war is done.” His comment was flippant, as if the event was of no more significance than a passing shower. Yet to Tabitha, it was as if the earth had lurched beneath the cart.
“War? I thought it was over.”
Twardy raised one eyebrow. “Events here are a clue to others distant. I saw the Swords go south, but never north did come. Think of the things you have seen, and what they mean. But do it while you ride. Go!”
He slapped the horse’s rump. Blazey rolled her eyes, then lurched away at a trot. Tabitha teetered in the driver’s seat, and hurriedly grabbed the reins. When she chanced to look back, Zarost was hidden in the gloom of the stables.
The cart shuddered over the cobbles, and Tabitha was consumed by the task of trying to guide Blazey safely down through the city streets at speed. It was only when she reached the smooth surface of the Kingsbridge that she could really consider what Zarost had said.
Think of the things you have seen, and what they mean.
The Rector had handed her to the Shadowcaster, so he had an allegiance with the Dark. Implications spilled across her mind, scattering alarm everywhere. The Rector had sent the Lightgifters to Ravenscroft, on a mission of healing. If the Rector was an ally of the Darkmaster, he would only send the full force of the Lightgifters to Ravenscroft if ... they were walking into a trap. The Swords must have been anything but victorious. And the Shadowcasters were confident enough to lure the entire Dovecote to their lair.
I have to warn them!
There would surely be light essence in Stormhaven, enough to cast a spell with. She let Blazey stretch her stride.
* * *
Zarost hoisted a fire-coloured patchwork blanket from the small pile of belongings that he had liberated from the cart. After some rough stitching with twine, it became a serviceable bard’s cloak, fastened at his throat. Bards were known for their colourful garments and more colourful tales. He only had a frayed grey robe to wear beneath it, but that would have to do. He took a pair of working trousers that he found in the nearby cupboard and replaced them with the dress and silk headpiece, and the melon. Then he broke the head from the broom and tossed it aside.
“Every bard has a worthy staff, a worthy staff has he,” he sang as he ground the splinters from the end against the floor. “None so good as a staff that has proved its worth already,” he added, to himself. It had been a long time since he had plied the trade of a bard. It might be quite refreshing, for a change.
After settling a small debt with a certain discreet stable-manager, and pressing another coin into his hand for his continued discretion, he left from the back entrance. He kept the grey hood of the robe pulled up over his head. He hoped that he would remain a mystery to all who saw him—just a spry colourful figure passing through the streets of Levin, planting his short staff at ever
y second step and whistling into the shadow of his hood. Those who led any chase from the Dovecote or the wharf market would be disappointed, for the sure trail of the large-breasted Madam Astro’z ended in a pile of steaming horse manure. Sometimes it paid to sow the seeds of confusion thicker than thistles.
He could not afford to be tailed, by men or by Morrigán.
He hoped Tabitha Serannon would stay out of harm’s way until he returned. The Darkstone would challenge her greatly. It had not been his plan, but it would serve his purposes. She needed balance in her training, and none better than Cabal of Ravenscroft to offer that. That was the theory, but in practice it was always difficult to let the Seeker follow their own path to the wizard, because it inevitably led to their demise. Every time.
Even though he knew that Tabitha was different, he feared now that she might meet the same end as the others. Though it went against everything the Gyre had planned, he was resolved to intervene. It was the first thing he would present to the meeting of the Gyre. She was too valuable to sacrifice to the sovereign principle of free will. It worked for most apprentices, but the Wizards had never expected one such as Tabitha to develop in Eyri. She was beyond what they had planned for. He would petition the Gyre to change the rules.
A delicate, rainbowed butterfly gambolled around his head, and chose a bright yellow patch of his cloak to rest upon.
He quickened his pace toward River’s End.
32. ECLIPSE
“The righteous pay little heed
to what they walk upon.”—Zarost
The Lightgifters were a sorry lot, Ashley decided. After only a day on the trail, their march had reduced to a snail’s pace. So much for a life of sacrifice; in their years of service to the Light, the Gifters had become lazy, and soft. Too much opulence, too little experience of suffering.
Groans of sore bodies plagued the procession like the blisters on the feet of those who groaned. One Sister was even complaining of a headache from too much fresh air. Self-administered healing had run rife through the group in Kironkiln that morning, until Father Keegan had forbidden further use of their precious store of Light. In the absence of the Rector’s guidance, Keegan had assumed authority over the group, and no one had objected—he was an experienced Gifter, and had developed a fierce temper of late. He strode ahead with purpose, but the train of Gifters in his wake had all the dignity of a school outing, complete with the children who always limped pitifully at the back, demanding attention.
They had flitted through Fendwarrow without stopping for breakfast. The village had seemed strangely quiet. Now they were high in the mountains, and the trail was steep, winding in switchbacks over rumpled ridges littered with scree. Despite the warmth generated from the exercise, the wind drove a cutting cold through the threads of Ashley’s robe. He couldn’t be sure it was only the wind.
Doubts plagued his mind. The Gifters were weak. The last time he had been to Ravenscroft, it had been anything but a place for petulant companions. He could remember the dread which had smothered him in the vale of Dark. Had it not been for the resilience of Garyll Glavenor, he doubted that they would have escaped. It was a wonder that the Swords had now conquered the Shadowcasters in such a short space of time. A foe as great as the Darkmaster would not have offered an easy victory.
A white dove winged to the path. It bobbed its head as it watched him approach. The Courier had been following them all morning. Ashley had seen the bird the previous afternoon, before they had decided to overnight in Kironkiln. It seemed to be intent on him rather than any other Lightgifter. He had tried to lure it closer before sunset, but to no avail.
It was surely the result of a spell constructed by a novice. His own first attempts at Couriers had been worse—his birds had plummeted from the sky, and exploded upon the roofs in Levin’s upper district. At least this bird had the correct proportions.
The dove cocked its head nervously, and began to walk as fast as its little legs would take it up the trail, away from the approaching Lightgifters.
The Courier’s perfect proportions were causing its downfall. It was a classic mistake of novice Gifters. If you formed a Courier with too much realism, it would try to deliver its message, but every time it neared a large group of people it would behave like a real dove.
The dove lifted from the trail in a frantic beating of wings, and climbed into the stronger winds aloft. Gone, again.
Maybe it would settle at sunset in Ravenscroft, if he could find a place where he could be alone. Maybe it would come down for seed. You never could tell with aberrant spells, what behaviour they would display.
* * *
Afternoon had worn thin into a grey sky when they came to the chasm. Their grumbles and groans of discomfort had followed the Lightgifters like a mantra, but when they emerged on the landing, overlooking the frightful drop-off, even the complainers fell silent. They huddled together, pulled their robes closer, raised their hoods against the sudden assault of cold. No one was ready to cross the bridge. Ashley could not still his beating heart.
The wind moaned through the black canyon, tearing a shroud of snow from the higher peaks before tumbling through the torture of knife-edged spines that was the birthplace of the Black River. From his vantage the river appeared white in its haste, but Ashley knew that by the time it reached Fendwarrow, the waters would ooze through the reeds and stain them dark. He drew the Light which was assigned to him close to his hand. The chasm held a foreboding, lurking presence, as if there was a voice trapped in the wind. It had to be a trick of the canyon and the river far below.
The awful stone bridge spanned the gorge like a challenge to their failing courage. When he had last crossed it, they had been fleeing with fear and Morrigán at their backs. It was far worse to cross it voluntarily, when every vertiginous aspect was visible in the stark light of day. The slick, black stone curved down to the nadir in the centre of the span. Ashley knew that bridges should be curved the other way for strength. It was narrow, high, exposed. He wished they could turn back.
His eye caught a tumble of stripped trees, deep in the gorge beneath the bridge, a pile of limbs lying like a giant spider crushed by the seracs of ice that had fallen upon it. It was as if someone had tried to construct another bridge or a ladder, and failed.
Little wonder that they didn’t trust this bridge. Could it have been the work of the Swords?
A horn sounded on the far side of the chasm. A neat procession of figures assembled on the distant landing. Muttered words of relief passed through the knot of Gifters as they recognised the armoured uniforms of Swords. Fifteen, all told. Two blue royal banners were raised, displaying the gold cross of the Sword within the circle of Eyri. The banners were placed on either side of the landing where they snapped on their lances marking the access to the conquered vale of Ravenscroft.
“Come across, Lightgifters!” The Sword’s voice was faint above the din of the river which filled the chasm. He waved a hand.
Ashley drew a ragged breath, and squared his shoulders. There was no leeway for faltering feet or skidding hooves. It would be a fearsome crossing. Apparently the Swords were going to wait for them on the far side.
“It can hold you all! Come across,” urged the Sword’s small voice.
Ashley was amongst the first to walk onto the black span. He shuffled close behind Father Keegan, taking great care to stay in the centre of the exposed walkway. He had not yet taken twenty steps when a great cry went up behind him. Ashley turned as quickly as he dared to.
Two horses reared against their lead-reins, kicking out at the men who tried to tame them. A third horse broke its traces, and galloped away down the trail, back into the canyon.
“The horses won’t cross that bridge!” shouted one of the grooms to Father Keegan. “They fear it worse than a snake.”
Keegan recalled the Lightgifters, and they assembled around the pack animals. Solid rock had never felt so good underfoot.
“Can you foresee them crossing
this span, given time?” Father Keegan asked.
The groom shook his head without hesitation. “Father, we’ll not get them across that even if we spend a week with whips. They’re spooked something fierce.”
The two horses continued to rear, whinnying and snorting through flared nostrils, straining to follow their compatriot who had long since disappeared. They were in danger of losing all the animals.
Father Keegan took only a few moments to come to a decision. “Turn the horses! We’ll walk them a way down the trail, and offload the essentials we need. I’ll need volunteers to remain with them, to take the horses further down to the first safe grazing.”
Hands were raised before Keegan’s last words had been drawn away in the whispering wind.
When they started the crossing for the second time, the wind had increased to a howl. It whipped Ashley’s hair into his eyes and upset his balance with buffeting blasts. He staggered forwards, hunched to be closer to the surface of the bridge should he be pushed off-balance. The supplies he bore on his back were heavy and awkward in their canvas bag. He dared not look over the sheer edge of the bridge.
He focused instead on placing one foot in front of the other, and following the few Gifters who crossed ahead of him. Some of them were almost reduced to crawling. Somehow, they made it across the awful span. At last they were safely congregated beside the Swords.
The Swords made an unfriendly welcoming committee. They did not speak, they did not smile, and they kept their eyes downcast. They all bore the scars of a grievous battle. Some wounds were bandaged, most were left open, but none bled despite their neglect. The cold seemed to have sealed the wounds.
A broad-shouldered Sword with deep-set eyes stood forward.
“I am Captain Brent, leader of the Swords here. Who speaks for you?” he said tiredly.
Ashley was surprised. If Brent was the leader, where was Swordmaster Glavenor? Father Keegan might have been thinking the same thing, for he considered Captain Brent with a grave expression.
The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong) Page 54
