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

by Greg Hamerton

  He danced from one foot to the other, a mannerism that was familiar. Tsoraz had acquired all the agitated energy of his father.

  “Barding around, taverns and inns, some places too dark to enjoy. We disagree with each other, Twardy and I, and so we seldom see each other.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She—ah—died. A long time ago.”

  Tabitha could feel the truth of the story being strained at the seams.

  “When did you see Twardy?”

  “Never did, to be true. He sent a message to me. When he does that I know it’s important. He said he had to go away, and that I must come to Stormhaven, and look for a girl called Tabitha Serannon.” He spread his hands wide, as if to say ‘and here I am.’

  Tabitha didn’t believe a word. His eyes were shifty. And yet there was truth beneath it all.

  “I see there is a lot of your father in you,” she said.

  “Miss Serannon?”

  “You tell the truth in a roundabout way, but you cannot tell a lie well at all.”

  Tsoraz eyed her for a long time. Tabitha began to feel uneasy under that stare, and thought to retract her hasty words. He was a stranger, regardless of his parentage, and she had been rude to him.

  Mercy! I practically called him a liar!

  “I see I have tried to answer too much,” Tsoraz said at last. “I don’t have to answer every question, but if I speak, I speak the truth.”

  “That is Twardy Zarost’s code. You have a lot of your father in you.”

  “You could say that he taught me everything I know.”

  Tabitha looked at him askance. Tsoraz unsettled her, despite his friendliness. She wanted to test him. If he was who he claimed to be, maybe he would share some of the Riddler’s ability, and be able to see things most folks didn’t.

  “Would you know anything of this?” she asked, raising her hand.

  “The Wizard’s Ring? So you are still searching for the wizard, are you?”

  He had identified the Ring; she had to believe him. Questions suddenly filled her mind.

  “How am I to recognise the wizard? Why does the Ring grow warm and cold on its own? Why is it invisible to some people, but not to me? What does it do to me? Will the wizard be able to take it from me?”

  Tsoraz held up his hands to forestall her.

  “When Zarost left he laid his duty upon my shoulders until his return. I must follow the path of the Ring and advise the bearer. I would greatly love for you to learn all you need to find the wizard. I would be proud to present that success to Zarost, but I won’t riddle with his vigour, and I do not have his age. One thing he did teach me well, for times such as these. Reflection is a great tool.”

  He raised an eyebrow, just as his father would have.

  “And so?” asked Tabitha. The words were vaguely familiar, but she didn’t see the present significance.

  “How are you going to recognise the wizard, when you see him?” It was her own question, turned upon her. But he had missed something.

  “Twardy said the wizard was most likely a woman.”

  Tsoraz grimaced. “Yes—he would have. Either way, it doesn’t change what he told me of the Ring, or the value of reflection. How are you going to recognise the wizard?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose she would look different to—others. I’ve heard that wizards have an aura of magic, though that’s probably fantasy, for how can you see magic, not the sprites and motes, but real magic, the kind wizards use? If I could see that magic, perhaps I could find a wizard.”

  Tsoraz stirred the air with his hand, encouraging her on. The Ring helped her to see, it brought clarity. She could pick out the finest detail of Tsoraz’s clothing, even the fresh pollen caught in the hem of his colourful cloak. She had seen footprints in the Dovecote, footprints on stone. Maybe the Ring would allow her to see magic, once her talent to use it had grown enough. Maybe there was something in what Tsoraz had said.

  What I said, she realised. Tsoraz was being very sly.

  “Why does the Ring grow warm?” he asked, repeating her second question in doing so.

  “It does that when I’m discovering something, when I do something new which I feel is right. I’ve taken it to be encouragement, though I don’t know why it responds.”

  It grows warm when I follow the truth.

  “Why does it grow cold?” he prompted.

  “When I’m doing something which leads me away from the wizard?” It was a guess, but even as she spoke the words, the Ring warmed.

  “Why is it invisible to most, but not to you?”

  “It is made of a kind of magic, and I can see it. I can see magic?”

  The guessing game was fun, but Tabitha was losing her footing. Tsoraz was turning everything upside down. She had asked him all these questions, now he had tricked her into answering them herself. She wished Zarost was here, to make up for his son’s ignorance. The Ring was as warm as ever, though.

  “What does it do to you?” he asked.

  “It allows me to see things clearly. It allows me to think clearly. It allows me to be clear.”

  “Will the wizard be able to take it from you, do you think?”

  “Only if I am finished with it,” she said, with utmost certainty. It was her ring, and while she was learning from it, she did not want to give it away to anyone, even a wizard.

  “So you are committed to learning from the Ring, then?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, then you shall find the wizard!” he exclaimed. “That’s what I was told. At the end of the path of knowledge is the wizard.”

  So he was not totally ignorant of the Ring’s ways.

  “When did you learn about the Ring?” she asked.

  Tsoraz hopped from foot to foot. “Forgive me,” he said, “if I do not answer that. Forgive me too, if I answer not another personal question. A man likes to retain a bit of his mystery.”

  A bit of his mystery? He was already worse than Twardy Zarost, and that was saying a lot. The Riddler’s son, more of a riddle than the Riddler.

  “Did Twardy Zarost say when he’d be back?”

  “He said nothing of his return, but I am sure he shall. He did say to remind you that you have a gift, and that you should use it.”

  “What gift?”

  Tsoraz shrugged, and offered her lyre back to her. The wood had warmed in the bard’s grip, the fine grain of the strangle-oak was smooth under her fingers. Tabitha followed the curve of the instrument. She had been unable to use the lyre for days—she’d had no heart to sing. Yet Tsoraz the Bard had changed how she felt. He was like a burst of sunlight through her cloudy day. She appreciated what he had done, despite his intrusive manner. He had brought music to her, and brought her back to music. He deserved a good performance.

  She began her first stanza of the Lifesong gently. The clear essence on the floor shimmered under her influence, and Tsoraz stepped warily away, though by his expression he was fascinated as well.

  Colours danced in the liquid as the spirit of the Lifesong surged through Tabitha. The lyre added so much power to the singing. She was aware of a greater resonance surrounding her. The perfect notes released by the strings gave her a foundation upon which to build her song.

  She remembered the butterfly she had created in the Dovecote, but she was sure that more was possible. She had more clear essence under her influence, and she knew it worked, now.

  Her voice resounded off the walls. A thrill passed down her spine. As the stanza drew to a close, she visualised her creation. A beautiful wildcat with fierce green eyes and a sleek black coat. But at the last moment, she changed her mind. She couldn’t risk having such a feral creature in the room. Something more innocent and gentle would be better.

  The rabbit was as white as the snow upon Fynn’s Tooth, its long ears pink and fluffy on the inside. It looked at her with soft eyes wide with surprise. A button-nose twitched briefly at her scent. Then it made a high-pitched
mewling squeal and fell over on the floor. It writhed, turning as it did so.

  Tabitha gasped.

  Where there should have been a cotton puff tail, angry feline eyes glared at her above a snarl of teeth. The cat thrashed, using two clawed feet, and so the creature turned upon the floor, a double-headed swirl of fear and fury. The remnants of her first visualisation, not fully abandoned when she had thought of the second.

  Tabitha cried out as she recognised the implications of her mistake. She had created a cruelly deformed creature.

  Tsoraz was beside her in an instant, a firm hand on her shoulder. He pressed down harder when she tried to rise.

  “You must not go to it, Tabitha. It will maul you, you cannot heal that kind of thing.”

  Tabitha fought his grip. Terror rose in her throat.

  “What can I do?” she asked, in a constricted voice. “I can’t leave it. Oh, mercy, what have I done?” A wave of nausea washed over her. She shook with revulsion.

  “Is that all you know of the Lifesong?” Tsoraz demanded. “One little stanza? Zarost said you were a great singer, you must surely know more.”

  His tone was so uncompromising, so unsympathetic, that Tabitha found anger rising within her despite the overwhelming shock.

  “There is a second stanza,” she cried, “but it brings death! I have brought enough wrong to this day.” She hunched over sharply away from the awful sight which thrashed against the wall.

  “How can you stop there?” he argued, forcing her head up, directing her gaze to the freak. The cat was clawing at its own body, the rabbit’s body. It was drawing blood. Something was chittering, an awful lonely terrified sound.

  “What is life, without death?” Tsoraz demanded. “To have balance, both must exist. What if every person that ever lived were never allowed to die? How would they fit into the world? If you create life, you must bring death, also. It is time to accept that balance, Seeker. Accept the balance of being a creator.”

  When the rabbit tried to scrabble up the wall to escape its tormentor, she knew Tsoraz was right. She had to end what she had created.

  He couldn’t know how the Dark gripped her heart then. She had created an abomination, and now she was to kill it. She was truly tainted with evil. She hadn’t realised she had whispered her thoughts aloud until Tsoraz answered her. He squatted down in front of her, his expression earnest.

  “Is it evil to show mercy to a thing which should not be?”

  No. It would be evil to leave the creature to the terror of its existence.

  “The Lifesong is your path,” he urged. “You shall not find the wizard if you walk backwards.”

  It required only the gentlest aid from the Ring to clear her recollection of her mother’s scrolls. Just as the spell patterns were burned into her memory, so too were the words and tune of the second stanza. She was sure she could remember everything that had happened to her since she had donned the Ring—everything stood clear in her mind, waiting for her attention.

  She stroked the lyre with the first bar of music, and tried to keep the quavering from her voice when she sang, but she couldn’t stop the tears. The creature was held as soon as she began—it ceased its struggling, and sat still. The rabbit watched her with soft, round eyes.

  Sing low from your heart with grieving,

  and sing back the faults you have cast,

  Undo the hurt in the words never meant;

  for hate can return from the past.

  All Death is an end to a circle,

  all circles must close to be tight,

  better the truth than the lies of before,

  when wrong was held to be right.

  Better the truth than the falseness before,

  when you hold the Creation in sight.

  Tabitha knew that it was not the words that held the magic. It was the music, the interplay of notes and their timing which created a compelling resonance. The words helped to bind the spell. Tsoraz squatted beside her all the time, watching her. At one point, he leaned close, and whispered in such a manner as to not disturb her singing.

  “Keep your focus tight, do not let your attention wander, or many will be touched by what you do. Sing only to what you would affect.”

  And then it was done. The white fur flickered with sudden colours, turned transparent, and washed outwards on the floor. The poor creature that had lived such a short, terrible life, was dead.

  A pool of clear essence. It was difficult to see.

  Tabitha stared at the floorboards. Her heart was heavy with the burden of what she had just done. Tsoraz had said her path was forwards with the Lifesong, but that last step had frightened her more than she was willing to admit. Killing brought her too close to the darkness, too near to the depression she had been fighting so hard. It threatened to drown her once again.

  Tsoraz’s voice was distant. “You need the death, sometimes. It is the balance in life. In the same way that the darkness is so important, when you can only see light. Especially true for one like you.”

  The Darkstone. He knew about it. He toyed with her just as the Riddler had. She suddenly hated him, both of them, for their Riddler’s ways.

  “Out! Get out! I wish to be alone.”

  He did obey this time, but he poked his head into the room one last time before closing the door.

  “It is important to learn, but keep the curtains open, so that the light can get in too.”

  36. KING’S CROSS

  “If I spoke through my hat,

  would my words be simpler to understand?”—Zarost

  Ashley shifted the cord on his waist, and tried to clear the rumples from his robe. It was hopelessly stained, even torn in places. The road from Ravenscroft had been hard. There was no way to appear more presentable before the King of Eyri than to stand up straight and deliver his news. He waited as silence descended in the throne room.

  At least he had found Sister Grace, and she stood beside him in her clean Gifter’s white. She added both credibility and support to his story. Grace hadn’t needed much convincing, she had read the truth in his eyes. The young Sword who had brought him from Fendwarrow stood to his left; one of the new swords Glavenor had posted to seal the base of the Black River pass. Without the Sword’s aid he would still have been walking. His legs shook with fatigue as it was.

  It had not been easy getting past the indignant Court Official, but the King had allowed an immediate audience as soon as he had heard where Ashley had come from. Petitioners and nobles alike were politely cleared from the throne room, and only a few pages were retained in attendance. The Official stood to one side of the throne, shifting in his yellow robe as if standing on hot coals. Terrik, or Tarrok, if Ashley’s memory of the last audience served him correctly. He ignored the Official’s indolent glare, and addressed King Mellar on his raised throne directly.

  “The Lightgifters walked into a trap in Ravenscroft, your Highness. We lost almost all of the Light essence we have to command. The Rector sent every able Gifter to the vale, because we received word that the Sword had conquered the Shadowcasters. We were sorely misled.”

  “I was never told of the Sword’s victory,” the King stated. “We have heard nothing of the Swordmaster’s campaign. Did it fail so completely?”

  “The Swords sealed the trap we walked into, your Highness. There are Swords in Ravenscroft who have been turned to serve the Darkmaster.”

  King Mellar took the news in silence. The only reaction Ashley noticed was the clenched muscles in Mellar’s jaw. The King scrutinised Ashley as if he searched for evidence of dishonesty. Mellar found none.

  “What of Glavenor. What of my Swordmaster?”

  “I did not see him, your Highness.” Ashley paused. “He is a strong man.”

  He left it at that. He could not believe the Swordmaster could be turned. If Glavenor had been turned, they would all fall. Every captive of Ravenscroft would serve the Darkmaster, and a terrible army that would be. But he could not be sure that it w
as not true.

  “You did not see him,” repeated King Mellar, “and yet did any come down from the Black River pass?” The question was directed at the young Sword. The man stood to attention.

  “No, Highness. This young man was the first to return. I have been there for over a week.”

  The King seemed to grow smaller in his throne. “You did not see him, and yet he must still be in that vale.”

  “I witnessed—a turning.” Ashley didn’t know how else to describe the seduction of Father Keegan. “One of the Gifters, converted to serve the Dark. I believe it is the fate of all who have been captured in Ravenscroft. They are being held, and those who can be, are turned.”

  “And yet you escaped?”

  “I was lucky, your Highness. And I had warning, of a kind.”

  “How so?”

  “Tabitha Serannon, the singer. She caught wind of the plot. She sent me a messenger, though it arrived too late to save anyone but me. She suspected the Rector Shamgar as an ally of the Darkmaster. I would not have believed it, but I saw enough in Ravenscroft to be sure. He sent us there with all our essence deliberately.”

  “That is a great accusation!” Tarrok interjected. “The leader of the Lightgifters, a traitor to your cause? He must have been misled by this false news you spoke of.”

  Ashley shook his head tiredly. “We were herded into Ravenscroft, we were crippled by their wine, we were guarded by Swords who spoke of the Darkmaster as their lord, and I saw our sprites being turned to create the motes of Dark. I have no doubt that it was a trap, and that Tabitha was correct.”

  Sister Grace spoke up for the first time. “Again, she is the pivot around which strange events turn.”

  King Mellar turned to Grace. “Could she be summoned as well? Maybelle told me that she is in Stormhaven.”

  Sister Grace looked reluctant. “She is in a poor way. Something happened to her in the Dovecote, and she will not speak of it. I have sought her out, but was refused each time. But she would surely not refuse a royal summons—” Her voice trailed away.

  King Mellar considered it briefly, then nodded his head. “Yes, I need to know why she believes the Rector a traitor. Have Tabitha Serannon summoned, in my name,” he announced, pointing to a young page amongst the few close at hand. “She is in the Boarding.” The page left the throne room with tassels flapping. King Mellar didn’t rebuke him, though Ashley knew it was forbidden to run in the palace.