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

by Greg Hamerton

  “The Dark is created from the Light in a spell of turning.”

  “Oh for the love of the Light! Your imagination runs away with you.”

  Onassis turned to the two strange Gifters. “The cold has bitten his mind. His sanity should return, later. For now, silence would be best.”

  “Rector Shamgar is an agent of the Dark,” Ashley declared.

  “Outrageous!” Onassis said, whirling. The two large men in Gifters robes separated, approaching Ashley from either side. Onassis held his attention by stepping up close. “How dare you insult the leader of the Dovecote with such slander!”

  “Tabitha Serannon sent me a Courier,” Ashley said.

  “Serannon? The new girl, not even an apprentice? You take her word for truth, and the Rector’s for false?” Ashley backed away from Father Onassis. Old Finnian still sat at the brazier, but the other two men were somewhere behind him. He couldn’t turn to look and still watch Onassis.

  “We must return to the Dovecote!” Ashley exclaimed. “We must save the Source. They plan to take it, turn it to their power.”

  “Turn the Source to the Dark? You really have learned a lot in one night. Far too much.”

  An arm grabbed Ashley from behind. His mug broke on the ground, a stain of red-brown soup on trampled grass. He fought the grip, but the strange Gifter possessed an immense strength. He was turned, despite his thrashing legs, to face the other white-robed figure who had circled around him. Between that man’s hands, a dark cloud had formed, composed of spinning motes.

  In one dreadful moment, he understood why he didn’t recognise the two men in white robes. They weren’t Lightgifters at all.

  Seeing his shocked expression, the man who wove the motes gave Ashley a predatory smile.

  “It is not the robe that makes a man, but this,” he said, dipping his hand behind his collar. What dangled on the end of the chain he retrieved was a stone of the purest black. “You shall have one, soon enough.”

  Ashley pulled hard against his restrainer to look at Onassis. He still wore a Lightstone, as did old Finnian, but Ashley doubted the orbs meant much to them. They had defected to the Dark.

  “Yes, Shadowcasters, dear half-knot. You’d be wise not to resist them. The last two who tried that, lie at the bottom of the Black River. Without their robes, of course.” He signalled to the Shadowcasters. “Time this one was silenced, until the Darkmaster calls upon us.”

  Ashley realised that the falling rock on the bridge had been no accident. He was being stopped from escaping Ravenscroft. The nightmare was not over.

  There was only one spell violent enough to give him a chance, and hardly any Light essence for the task. The meagre supply which Finnian kept in the dish beside him took a fraction of an instant to summon—it was that small. He hoped he had the pattern right when he spoke the words of the Flameburst. He had managed to practice it only a few times since Tabitha had shown him the complex weave. He chose a target that would generate the greatest response from the smallest assault.

  His restrainer roared in pain, and released Ashley instantly. He guessed his spell had worked. Then the motes from the other Shadowcaster were humming through the air. They thumped into his chest. Ashley gasped against the sudden cold and panic. He ran past the man who had acted as his restrainer, a man who now beat at his flaming crotch with both hands. Ashley dodged the bulk of Onassis; the Father was too overweight to react quickly, and too surprised to do more than flail his arms.

  Old Finnian blocked the exit. He had risen beside the brazier, and held a mug deep in the pot. With a jerk he loosed a scoop of boiling fluid toward Ashley, but the aim was high. Ashley ducked, and upset the brazier and the pot when he stumbled. Someone screamed close behind him, and Finnian fell back from the tumbled coals. Ashley burst through the slack canvas of the door, and didn’t stop. The horses grazed close by, picketed on long halters.

  He took the first horse he came upon, a dun-coloured gelding that shied from his approach. There was no time to saddle him up—he tore the picket from the ground, and leapt upon the horse’s back. The gelding weaved and tossed its head in anger, almost unseating him, but when the Shadowcaster emerged from the tent, the gelding needed no encouragement. It fled from the motes which flickered through the air after them, and squealed when the spell missed its mark and found the horse instead. The gelding kept its footing though, too large a beast to be taken by whatever attempt the Shadowcaster had aimed at the rider. Ashley didn’t look back. All he could do was to hold on.

  It was a long time before Ashley found the chance to check for pursuit. The slope become more gradual over a league, as the trail followed the course of the Black River from the mountains into lower hills. Mist collected in the folds of the ravine to his left. All the while the horse galloped, whether the trail was narrow or wide. The gelding had a flowing stride, but without a saddle and reins, he had little control over what it did, besides holding onto its mane and the halter rope for dear life. The trail bent close to the Black River, and they had almost entered a bank of mist when the gelding’s gait slowed. Ashley was bounced vigorously with the new stride, and his thighs could grip no longer. He managed to hold on long enough to reach a large bush, and he used its spiny mass to break his fall. The horse galloped away from the trail up a grassed slope and into the curling fringe of the river mist.

  Ashley called out to it, but the gelding was gone.

  There was no sign of Shadowcasters. He knew that one of the Shadowcasters would be loath to ride a horse at that moment. Maybe the other had been caught by Finnian’s scalding soup, and couldn’t see to ride. Onassis was too fat to be riding in pursuit, and Finnian too frail. He felt a small surge of triumph at his escape, but almost at once he noticed dark spots above the Ravenscroft trail. The pursuers grew larger as they flew down the ravine. Black ravens. Morrigán.

  Ashley began to run. Shrill cries pierced the sky far behind him. Ashley reached the cover of mist and kept running, even though the trail became treacherous underfoot.

  The Morrigán came closer and closer. Each call was louder than the last, until it sounded as if they croaked inside his head.

  He stumbled onwards. He kept expecting a bird to burst through the grey moisture and find him, but the mists seemed to frustrate them in their hunt. The Morrigán cawed close overhead, but after what seemed like an interminable torture, their hoarse mocking sounded further away, in widening circles that lifted ever higher.

  Ashley ran.

  The ravens came again three times that night, always in greater numbers, but the mist held, and every time they were thwarted by it.

  35. MOSAIC

  “The forbidden lies deep within us all.”—Zarost

  Tabitha sat alone in her bedroom at the Boarding. The bustle of Stormhaven passed below the window, yet the sounds did not penetrate far into Tabitha’s retreat. The curtains were drawn against the sickening brightness of the sun; only a sliver of light ran across the floorboards, in which a pool of sprites turned idly, awaiting her command. Tabitha’s attention was neither upon the sprites, nor on the discarded lyre on her bed. She sat on the floor. Her grey robe was rumpled.

  A fresh tear trickled over her cheek. She ought to have drained the reservoir of tears by now, yet there were always more, and they did nothing to quench her shame. It wasn’t fair, it hadn’t been her fault, but the Shadowcaster had left his mark on her, touched her in a way she could never forget. The stain was too intimate.

  She closed her eyes tight. She was tainted. Water with a drop of poison was poisoned water. The tainted part could not be separated from her whole. She was the result of a Shadowcaster’s ravaging, and was ashamed to be seen, ashamed to talk to anyone, for was it not her fault that she had been caught by the Rector in the first place, and expelled from the Dovecote into the hands of the Shadowcaster? It was her fault, because she had not defended herself with the Shiver. She had allowed herself to be taken by Arkell. Her shoulders shook.

  She couldn’t
bear it. There was always the chance of infecting others with the same evil which coursed through her veins, the poison which spread with every beat of her once-pure heart. She had to hide from the world.

  It would have been better if Arkell had raped her, and left her un-orbed. She would have born that shame better, despite the nausea that image brought with it.

  Her hand found the cold stone at her throat. The Darkstone. It was everything she hated, yet her hands always returned to its smooth face. Her anger and shame flared as soon as she realised she had done it again. She slapped herself, hard. It would renew the bruise there, but she didn’t care. No one would see her, because she would see no one.

  She sat on her hands. She knew that those hands would escape again. What made it worse was that the urge came from within herself, as if there were two personalities in one body, straining against one another for the use of her will. Part of her savoured the pain of the slap. The anger was her own, though she had never felt it as such a raw emotion. Before.

  The Darkstone was cold in her fingers.

  Always, within it, there was the whispering voice of the Darkmaster. His presence crept around, searching for the unguarded places in her mind, relentless, on and on and on. He was a coercive enemy, like an eel moving through the dark waters of her mind, trying to ensnare her. She was barely able to resist him. She was surprised that she could refuse the words of devotion that he wished her to utter. Maybe it had something to do with the distance, or his attention. She doubted she could hold out if he was closer.

  What she couldn’t bear was her own darkness, rising within her. She knew it was her own, and not the Darkmaster’s. It heightened her shame.

  The Sage had warned her.

  The Ring shall take you on the darkest path.

  That could not be denied. The pool of Dark essence beside the peaceful sprites was proof enough. She hated the motes, hated herself for their presence. She had summoned the Dark to her room. It glistened, enticing her eye. She knew none of the spells, yet she could not bring herself to banish the motes, not yet. It was terrible. There was power in the Dark, power with which to tear down those who had been so cruel. The Darkmaster would pay for what he had done. Kirjath Arkell would pay. She needed the power, but she had no mastery over the evil motes. She wanted nothing to do with the tainted magic.

  Tabitha summoned the Light essence to her hand, and watched the sprites dance in the air. Just holding them close helped her to remember who she was, who she wanted to be.

  I am a Lightgifter.

  She dropped the sprites into the pool of motes. There was a brief squeal, like that of an iron pot placed too quickly into cold water. For a moment there was an angry writhing of Light and Dark contained in the one pool, then it was gone, and all that remained was clear essence.

  She hid the Darkstone under the scarf that already hid her Lightstone. She retied the knot.

  How many times have I retied this knot?

  The cycle was endless. Three days, and each the same. The more resolutely she denied the Darkstone, the sooner it seemed to emerge from the scarf which hid it. At least she had discovered the way to destroy the foul motes that she summoned in her moments of weakness. She prayed she wouldn’t waste too much Light in doing so.

  There had to be some way to escape the touch of Dark. Tabitha scooped her lyre from the bed. She stood facing the bright slit in her curtains for a long time. Her fingers wouldn’t strike a note. She wasn’t worthy of creating anything beautiful, and she didn’t know of any songs which reflected her mood.

  The intruder surprised her. He was so stealthy that she only noticed him when he voiced his greeting beside her.

  “Miss Westerbrook said you were doing poorly, Tabitha Truthsayer. I am here to bring some cheer.”

  She jumped, and spun to face the intruder. A youthful, athletic man, brown-skinned, his bald head smooth and un-weathered. He wore a fire-coloured cloak over a simple grey robe, and he carried a slender staff. He was a complete stranger.

  “Go away,” she snapped. She was full of anger; anger at being intruded upon, anger at wishing he would stay, anger at being angry. He looked crestfallen.

  “I mean, thank you, I have no need to be cheered up,” she added, remembering her manners. “The door was locked for a reason. I’d like to be alone.”

  “Now that is quite wrong, I must say, you really would like me to stay.”

  Tabitha glared at the stranger. She wasn’t sure what to do with all the anger she felt at his presumption. Dark anger. She held her tongue, trying first to find clarity within her warring emotions.

  “I see you have a lyre,” he said. “Would you let me play a song? Just a simple one?”

  “Do you promise to go away when it is done?”

  The stranger considered this for a moment.

  “Certainly. When the song is ended, or when you smile.”

  There was an uncanny familiarity about the man, something about the way he stood, or his speech, but she knew she had never seen his face before. He had a vigorous presence, and it lent her strength. He was a distraction from the agony of being alone. He deserved at least a moment of her time for that.

  He better not sing like a bullfrog.

  She handed him the lyre, and he set his staff aside to take it. The stranger plucked a few experimental notes.

  “A fine instrument this, fine beyond words.” He struck a simple tune, and launched forth into song, with a good voice. The lyrics, however, were familiar and appalling.

  Oh, past the bridge came a wide-bowed boat,

  where does the river end?

  a wide-bowed boat with a cow on board,

  where does the river end?

  a wide-bowed boat with a cow, and a cat,

  where does the river end?

  a wide-bowed boat with a cow,

  and a cat and a red speckled hen,

  where does the river end?

  The stranger sang on. It was a common tavern song, and one which involved adding items to the list until memory could not hold them all. Even a fully inebriated man could make the song last for too long; the stranger was as sober as a fox. The song was never, ever going to end.

  He had agreed to leave.

  When the song is ended, or when you smile.

  She grimaced; it was the best she could do, in her current mood. The stranger was a rascal. He continued to play with a dead-pan face, as if there was nothing devious about his choice of tune at all.

  She realised what made him seem familiar—it was his eyes, the golden-brown gaze full of laughter. He reminded her of Twardy Zarost. There was a resemblance to his features as well, but he was young, his skin smooth, where Zarost was old and weathered like tree-bark. Zarost had a forest of hair; the stranger had not one hair upon his head. Zarost was a wiry little man, the stranger was of similar height, but well-muscled. He was even quite good-looking.

  She wondered what had happened to the Riddler. He had promised that he would return. She could do with some answers. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted him around. He had urged her to use the Dark.

  The stranger’s humour was infectious. His lyrics became more inventive and ridiculously funny by the minute. It wasn’t so bad to smile. He stopped playing then, and returned her smile with a scurrilous grin.

  “Do you have a name, stranger?” she enquired.

  “Tsoraz, humbly at your service.” He bowed his bald pate low before her.

  “Tsoraz. Where do you hail from?”

  “Flowerton, most recently. I live where I find my audience.”

  “You’ll find little audience on the Isle. Only the King’s bards may perform in the taverns.”

  “It was other prospects which brought me to Stormhaven, not singing.”

  “What is your business here? If I may ask,” Tabitha added hastily. She had not meant to be so assertive. She had not been so aggressive. Before.

  “I am talking to her.”

  Tabitha stiffened, suddenly self-
conscious and wary.

  “What interest does a bard have in this young woman?”

  Tsoraz raised a caustic eyebrow. There was laughter in his voice when the bard spoke. “In your case, my interest is more of a duty. But don’t hear that wrongly, you are a beautiful young woman.”

  Tabitha blushed, despite herself. He had no right to flatter her. He shouldn’t even be in her room. She chose her question carefully. The bard’s answers left nothing answered at all. She got the distinct feeling that even though she was asking the questions, it was he who was directing the conversation.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “That will become clear to you in time. You can trust me, my intentions are wholly honourable,” he said with as much credibility as a blackguard.

  “You look so much like a friend of mine. Do you know the Riddler Zarost?”

  Tsoraz nodded his head repeatedly, a smile growing on his lips.

  “So by truth am I bound. He said you were one to know the truth sooner than any other. He was the one who sent me to you.”

  “You know Zarost? You’re related to him, aren’t you?”

  “You could say that I am his son.”

  “Son?” Tabitha was amazed. “He never spoke of any family.”

  “That’s because he was a riddler, and my identity is a secret. He hasn’t seen me for many years.”

  “Was a riddler. What has happened to Zarost?”

  “Was? Is. Oo-er.” Tsoraz shot her a vexed glance. “He did warn me you’d be twisting my words around in an instant, have me thinking backwards and tripping over my own stupid feet. I meant when he spoke to you of his family, it was as a riddler that he spoke.”

  “He didn’t speak to me of his family.”

  “Y-es. That is what I meant. You mustn’t tell anyone of my link to Twardy, it is an important secret to keep. Twardy made some enemies in Eyri, over time, and I would hate to fall into their hands.”

  Considering the Riddler, she could understand the request.

  “So where have you been all this time that you haven’t seen your own father?”