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

by Greg Hamerton

  “Oh Riddler, don’t despair, if you believe in her potential, then you must accept the risk of returning to Eyri, to guide the Seeker to find the wizard, while doing nothing to clear the path ahead. And we must accept the risk of battling the Writhe with only our seven until you have succeeded or failed for sure. What is certain is that you do not have much time. The Writhe shall reach the Shield in less than a week. You must be gone from Eyri by the sixth day, Riddler. We shall do what we can to slow the Writhe, but we have little hope of turning it, without you. “

  * * *

  When the meeting adjourned, Twardy Zarost climbed the stairs to the High Quad. It was an open square of pale stonewood, half-recessed into the curve of shimmering green roof-scales, half-exposed on its northern sides where a low encircling wall guarded the edge of the drop and the panoramic view of the desert. Empty dunes swept away like a great tan-coloured sea on that side, too vast and arid to cross on foot. Even the transient Armad peoples who roamed the desert from the west coast to Azique didn’t come this far south. Only via Transference could one reach the Sanctuary. Only via Transference could one leave it.

  Zarost inhaled the hot desert air.

  He was disappointed by the outcome of the meeting, but he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He was the only one who truly understood Eyri. Maybe he was becoming too attached to the place, maybe he cared too much for the life within it. He knew he cared about Tabitha Serannon. The other members of the Gyre were jaded by years of exposure to Chaos, in the vicious world beyond the Shield. In Eyri, life was good, precious and pure. The Gyre had forgotten such a life, and maybe he had forgotten the true burden of living exposed. Then again, they had the use of their magic every day; he lived a life of restraint. Differences were bound to evolve between them, but whichever way the circle of the Gyre turned, he would not abandon it, for it turned around the pool of their strengths.

  His fire-coloured cloak hung slack and heavy from his shoulders, but he could already feel the moisture being baked from it despite the lack of any wind. It would soon be unpleasant to be at the Sanctuary, but there was one task he wished to complete before departing, a task which could only be achieved here, beyond the Shield, in a place where he could employ his magic to the full.

  The Restitution. It had been twenty years since his last use of the wizards’ sovereign remedy. Under the watchful eye of the false Seeker, he hadn’t dared to use it, for his transformation might have brought Cabal of Ravenscroft closer to solving the riddle of finding the wizard. Even though the Darkmaster had ceased to develop as a mage and had shackled the Ring to his neck just to keep it, he would have been entitled to promotion if he had found the wizard. And so Zarost had never dared to cast such an obvious riddle at his feet. Every day, Zarost had been weathered under the ceaseless caress of time, just the same as everybody else.

  But now! Now the Seeker was Tabitha Serannon. His Restitution might be just what was required to speed her along the path. It was a riddle she would surely solve, and in so doing, she might solve the riddle of the Ring. If she could see what was at the end of the path, she would be there herself. Zarost was determined. If the Gyre required her to become a wizard before she could be released from Eyri, then a wizard she would be, or he would feed himself to the Wranglewrithe.

  He sat down on the low wall at the edge of the Quad and closed his eyes. The spell of Restitution required complete concentration, and he was out of practice, he knew. It wouldn’t do to get it wrong.

  He reached backwards in Time, past the centuries of his riddling in Eyri, past the formation of the Gyre and the years of rising Chaos which had caused it to form, earlier still, to the time when he had first found a misplaced clear ring himself, and nervously put it on his hand. He had been young, on that day in the College in Kings Meet, too young, according to their rules, and yet for any profession other than wizardry he would have been considered a man.

  He had been lithe and strong. He held that moment in thought, remembering every fine detail of that body, feeling the way it had felt, knowing the youth and confidence. He had been a handsome acolyte, and bald, in the fashion of the time. He remembered the cool feeling of his shaven head, and the smell of the oils he had used to nourish it. He had worn a beautiful cloak, one of those streak-patterned silk weaves imported from the Empire of Azique.

  He anticipated the transformation with a deep breath, then discarded the tired pattern which held him together on the roof-quad of the Gyre Sanctuary. He reached his arms wide, and accepted the perfect memory of the younger man he had been, in another place, another time.

  Truly remember your youth, and young you shall be.

  He felt the tightening, then the searing heat of Restitution as his body changed. The spell did not create anything new, or make anything disappear, it merely encouraged what was already there to rearrange itself, to become re-ordered, to reject the slow disintegration and chaos of age. It was a spell on the third axis, a spell of pure Order.

  Shivers, it felt good!

  He was outrageously hungry—his new form needed filling in. He would have to make haste to Eyri, lest he starved to death. He opened his eyes, eyes sharp with youth. He was looking forward to presenting this riddle to the Seeker. He had some good twists in mind. It was a joy being young again.

  As he rose to prepare for the return to Eyri, a hand touched him hesitantly on the shoulder. The shock-haired Mentalist stood back as Zarost turned. A surprised look crossed his face.

  “Riddler? It is you! Ai, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your Rest.”

  “It is done.”

  “Ehff. You, ah, your change is very impressive. You go back so far!”

  It was unlike the Mentalist to compliment a spell, for he considered himself superior in most regards. Zarost hadn’t forgotten that the Mentalist had voted against him. But the young savant wanted something now. Zarost could guess what it was.

  “It is hot for games with words, Mentalist. How can I help you?”

  Zarost kept his expression impassive. Let the Mentalist believe he was safe. It was never too hot for a riddle.

  “Your Transference,” said the Mentalist, looking awkward. “I want to know how you achieve such speed. It would be useful to me.”

  “Who is left at the Sanctuary?” Zarost asked.

  “Just the two of us, and –”

  “– the Cosmologer,” a high-pitched voice took over, “who is leaving. I don’t care what it is you want. There may yet be time to warn the Hunters of Bradach Hide, in case the Writhe veers west. ” She passed by briskly. Even so, she was unable to conceal the dilation of her pupils from Zarost’s sharp eye.

  And you always thought you were the next in ability after the Mystery in retaining your youth. He chuckled to himself. She wasn’t nearly as good as he was at Resting.

  The Cosmologer sat stiffly with her back to the two men, and stared off across the desert in meditation. Zarost indicated they should watch in silence—the example would be useful to prepare the Mentalist. It took ten minutes of fading until she finally disappeared with the softest of whispers like a guttering flame. Zarost shook his head. She was so pre-occupied with time, she didn’t notice how much of it she wasted herself. There was a much better way to cast the Transference spell. He turned to face the Mentalist.

  The Mentalist looked like a boy about to be given a treat. His blue eyes were bright; the gold flecks in each iris, the marks of his years, shimmered with the wizard’s desire for knowledge. “Show me. Please.”

  “If you want to learn my method, you will take a binding vow—you must use my trick to leave the Sanctuary now.”

  The Mentalist eyed him warily, and not without reason. One did not accept a binding oath from a wizard lightly, but the lure of the reward was too great. “I accept the oath. I shall use your method to leave the Sanctuary, or I shall not be able to leave at all.”

  Zarost wove the conditional seal out of clear essence, which when the Mentalist had accepted, bound itsel
f to his aura like a plaited noose. It would not fail until the conditions of the oath were fulfilled. The Mentalist mistook Zarost’s grin for comradeship and slapped the Riddler on the back. Zarost began with his brief instruction at once to prevent his rising laughter from escaping. Oh, the Mentalist would wish he hadn’t sided against the Riddler.

  “The Cosmologer fades so very slowly, because her heart is like stone,” Zarost explained.

  “Like stone? You mean still? But you have to meditate!” the Mentalist argued. “If you are not still, you will hold onto something of your self, and you’ll never reach infinity.”

  “There are other ways of urging the mind to let go.”

  “You mean you use—stimulants?” the Mentalist asked, looking shocked. His supercilious attitude was going to be his downfall. Literally.

  “The heart is the pulse of your thought. Make the heart run, and your departure will be short.”

  “But how do you raise the heartbeat so much? You appeared in an instant. Not a minute, or a half, but a snap of the fingers! Such an accelerated heartbeat could kill a man.”

  “But of course. And there ends your instruction, for that’s all there is to it.”

  Zarost winked. The Mentalist looked blank.

  Zarost picked up his short staff, ran to the edge of the roof, and leapt.

  The last words that Zarost heard before he disappeared were those spoken by the Mentalist, who peered, palefaced, over the edge of the high roof of the Gyre Sanctuary.

  “Oh, no. You’re insane! You devious, rotten, unscrupulous –”

  The wind of the fall drowned out the Mentalist’s curses. The thrill of the risky dive drove Zarost’s heart to racing. That was the secret. He disappeared in an instant.

  * * *

  Twardy Zarost leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight, but he was not yet content. His new muscles needed a lot of filling. It had been a long, hard run from River’s End to the Wayfarer’s Inn in Flowerton.

  “A trotter’s ribs, to fill my own,” he told the serving girl, and pressed another silver into her palm.

  Her hands were slender, yet strong. The girl’s dark eyes widened.

  “Are you sure, sir? You’ve already had four servings.” Her voice was warm. She leant close to clear his plate from the table. Zarost almost succeeded in looking away in time. He was sure that her dress had not exposed quite so much of her fine cleavage the last time she had come to the table.

  “I’ve never seen a man with such an appetite.”

  Zarost had forgotten how subtle the whole game was. It was a pleasure being in a young man’s body again.

  Even more so, to be in a young woman’s.

  He was thinking differently too, he realised. He had to be careful not to lose his way here, this was a stop for nourishment, nothing more. “When fine food is served, a man must rejoice and relish it for as long as he may.”

  “So long as you wish to eat, I shall serve you,” she said. That look in her eye, again.

  “Would you like to join me while I sup? I would enjoy your company, oh so very much.”

  The girl blushed and leant close to whisper. Zarost could smell the scent of flowers in her hair. “It is not something which my father would allow. But he has forgotten I am past eighteen, and he would sleep very soundly after midnight, if you’ll pay for an extra glass of Dwarrow.” The way she said it left little doubt that she had tested her father before.

  Zarost smiled. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Samantha.”

  “Thank you then, Samantha. I regret I am too hasty tonight, prefer to return when I have a greater appetite for such a rich dessert. For now, I’d be appeased if you would bring another rack, and a mead.”

  She looked disappointed. “What’s your name, traveller? In case you pass by again and I can hold you to your promise.”

  He drank, to hide his hesitation. It wouldn’t do to go under the name of Twardy Zarost, or even the Riddler, if he wanted it to be a fair riddle.

  “Tsoraz. Tsoraz the bard, pleased to make your acquaintance. Looking forward to deepening it some time.”

  She smiled, beautiful in the candlelight. Her dress swayed as she retreated through the swing doors of the kitchen. Zarost reminded himself that he was old enough to be her great-grandfather many times over, but he couldn’t stop seeing the world through the eyes of his youth. He wondered if he’d been a bit too hasty in using the full Restitution. He’d been a reckless young man, back then. It wouldn’t do, for the Riddler to be reckless.

  Truth be told, he wanted to be reckless. There were ways to ensure he didn’t plant a seed.

  And they all involve the use of magic, you fool. You have no time to be chasing skirts.

  He turned his gaze from the swing doors, now at rest.

  Six days, the Gyre had said. Already, too much time had slipped through his fingers. But he had needed the meal, he still needed more. Just one plate, he promised, and then he would make haste to Stormhaven, to the Seeker.

  34. BLACK RIVER

  “Those who try to juggle wisdom, power and greed,

  drop one of the balls, every time.”—Zarost

  Ashley Logán awoke to the bubble of soup. He was inside a large tent. Horses champed outside. A rotund Lightgifter pushed through the tent-flap, bringing with him a gust of blustery cold, and wan afternoon sunlight. The flap fell back as the newcomer joined the other three Gifters who sat on crates beside a brazier. Their cowls were raised. A pot was balanced over the coals, and one of the Gifters tended it with a wooden spoon. Beside him was a dish containing a small number of sprites.

  Ashley sat bolt upright. His head pounded an instant later.

  “Where am I? What day is it?”

  “Ah, feeling better then, son?” the rotund Gifter enquired, twisting on his seat. Brother Onassis. The one who tended the soup gave him a brief glance, revealing the wizened features of Brother Finnian. The other two kept their heads turned away, but he guessed they completed the four left behind at the bridge, those who had all been eager to tend the horses rather than enter the vale.

  “What day is it?” Ashley repeated, fingering his head tenderly. There was a lump on his crown, and his skull ached at the slightest pressure.

  What happened to me?

  “You’ve been asleep for quite some time. Frozen stiff when I found you. Lucky thing I was up at the bridge, or that rock that fell on you would have been the end.”

  “How long have I slept?” Ashley couldn’t keep the rising panic out of his voice.

  “You’ve dreamt the day away since I found you. Never fear, you’re safe,” Onassis added, seeing Ashley’s face pale. “We’re awaiting word from Father Keegan and the Gifters in the vale, but we’ve food enough to last a week.”

  A full day. The Dark might be poised to move from Ravenscroft.

  “The Gifters won’t be coming back. They were captured.”

  “The Gifters were—captured,” Onassis said, his voice trailing off. “Ah.”

  “All the Swords in the vale serve the Dark too,” Ashley said.

  The Gifters shifted uncomfortably on their crates.

  “I see,” said Onassis. He turned away from Ashley, and whispered something to the Gifters at the brazier. They laughed briefly. A mug was passed across to Brother Finnian. He dipped a ladle into his pot, and filled the mug.

  “Here, come and take some soup, you’ll feel better,” old Brother Finnian said, offering the mug to Ashley.

  “No!” Ashley strode toward them, but stopped short of the proffered mug. “No, you don’t understand. The Dark was not crushed. It was a trap, the Lightgifters walked into a trap!”

  “No need to shout, lad, we’re not deaf yet.” The mug waved about in an unsteady hand, and he took it, to avoid Finnian spilling good soup. He was hungry, but what he had to say was more important.

  “Why won’t you believe me?” He confronted Brother Onassis. “I saw it with my own eyes. The Dark is coming.”
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  Onassis sighed. “You’ve been hit harder than I thought, lad. Drink up, then you can tell us the story.” He wore the glazed look of a resigned comforter.

  Ashley began with the tale of their entrance to the Castle, and the feast which had awaited them. He spoke to the four Gifters, but he could feel his words were not getting through to any one of them, they merely seemed to be waiting for him to finish. Two of them didn’t even look up.

  They think I’m mad.

  Onassis urged him to drink his soup.

  Ashley despaired of his explanation. The urgency of it was making his head pound.

  “I saw Father Keegan lying with a Shadowcaster seductress. I saw him give up our collected Light essence to the Dark.”

  Onassis cuffed him across the ear.

  “You have said too much. You rave, half-knot! Drink your soup, and be still now.”

  “But it’s true!” shouted Ashley, not caring that he defied Father Onassis openly. They had to see, they had to believe. His head rang.

  The two Gifters who had kept their cowls up and their gazes downcast looked up suddenly. He didn’t recognised them. Both were large men. The significance of their strangeness did not impact on his mind at once.

  Onassis was angry. “Father Keegan? With a woman of the Dark? That is too wild. To say nothing of Light essence being given to the Dark. What were the Shadowcasters to do with it, for goodness sake?”