Ivory Lyre (12 page)

She nodded. “And where is Papa?”

“On Ocana with half a dozen others, rallying
rebel troops.”

She sat quietly. There would be fighting
soon. Her father would be in it, Garit, Summer, all of them. The
beginning would be like dropping off a cliff with no possible way
to turn back.

Garit touched her hand, bringing her back
from a thin edge of fear. “This is not why I wanted you to come.
There was another reason.”

She waited, watching him, concentrating on
how his red beard curled in a shaft of light through the
shutters.

“I saw the entourage when you first left the
palace this morning, while I was helping the cobbler store arms. I
followed you, then raced here through the back streets to have a
better look because . . . because I think I know Prince
Tebmund. I think that is not his true name.”

“And . . . is he not from Thedria?
Oh, Garit, not a servant of the dark.”

“What do
you
think he is? What do
you
feel?”

She swallowed. “I don’t know. I hope he is
not of the dark. I trust him, Garit, though I have no reason. He
makes me feel . . . a sense of goodness. Almost the way I
feel in the palace sometimes for no reason.” She shook her head.
“There’s no sense to it. I’m afraid to trust what I feel.”

“It is a sad thing about war, Kiri, that you
cannot trust your own instincts.”

“But if you know him . . .”

“I may know him. The one I knew was only
twelve when I saw him last. One changes a lot from twelve to
manhood. He would be sixteen now. If it is he . . .”

“But he saw you, Garit. Have
you
changed so much? If he knows you, wouldn’t he have given you some
sign? Turned . . . ?”

“If he was careful, he would not. Would you,
in this time of war, when even the slightest signal might be
noticed by Sardira’s soldiers?

“And there might be another reason,” Garit
said. “I heard once that my friend had lost all memory, didn’t even
know his name. That he was living on an island with a colony of
speaking otters, east of Windthorst, the island of Nightpool. I
went there searching for him. He had disappeared, and the otters
would tell me little. Their leader was away, traveling on some
secret errand . . . at least they were closemouthed about
it. Secretive—otters can be damnably secretive. They wouldn’t tell
me if Tebriel even knew who he was or where he went; they only
assured me he wasn’t there anymore.”

“If he is your friend, Garit—and if he
remembers— he will come to you.”

“He might be afraid of being followed, of
leading Sardira’s men here.” Garit frowned. “You must find out what
you can, Kiri. Learn whether he is Tebriel, son of the King of
Auric. Find out if he knows who he is.” He paused, watching her.
“If he is Tebriel, he is someone urgently important. Someone we
need. You are young and pretty. You should have no trouble charming
a young man into confiding in you.”

“If I had Accacia’s charms, maybe.”

“Does he seem attracted to Accacia?”

“He was riding with her in that pompous
parade. She is very taken with
him.”

“Accacia is taken with everything in pants.
If he is who I think, I expect he will have better taste.”

“How will I be sure he speaks truly? And how
will he know to trust me?”

“If you speak of the tapestries in his
palace, that showed the old times and worlds unknown to Tirror. If
you speak of his mother wearing a red dress and sitting before the
flame tree in her private walled garden. If you speak of his
childhood pony, Linnet, who used to want to roll in the river with
Teb on his back, and tell him I told you these things, he will know
that I trust you, and so can he.”

Mmenimm had awakened and was watching them.
Kiri knelt beside the great chocolate-colored cat and hugged his
muscled neck. He rubbed his tufted cheek against her hair. Marshy
did not wake but grasped Mmenimm’s leg tighter with one small hand.
His breathing was quick and shallow, and she watched the little boy
with concern. “He’s pale today. He’s sick again.”

“He has not slept well at night,” Mmenimm
said. “He sleeps better in the daytime. At night he has strange
dreams.” The great cat licked Kiri’s hand. “Dreams that wake him,
feverish with excitement.”

Marshy was often white and sick, though at
other times wiry and eager. No one could make out what caused the
changes. But that he was kin to strange powers, the same as Kiri
and Summer, no one doubted.

Marshy woke suddenly, stared up at her, then
put his arms up sleepily. She gathered him in. His little body felt
cold, except where he had been pressed against Mmenimm.

“I dreamed, Kiri.” He stared up at her, his
blue eyes swimmy from sleep. “I dreamed of dragons. In the sky—all
in the sky and the wind . . .”

She pressed her face to him and felt the
pain he felt, and knew how hopeless such dreams were. “I know,
Marshy. I know. I dream of dragons, too.”

He reared back with surprising strength and
stared at her. “No, Kiri. This was real—a real dream. They are
there. Dragons . . .” He stared at her boldly,
crossly. “In the sky, Kiri! They are there in the sky!”

She pressed his face gently against her
shoulder, hugging him, and exchanged a look with Mmenimm and with
Garit, sat rocking Marshy for a few moments, then laid him back in
the shelter of Mmenimm’s warm paws. She felt sick with her own
hopeless longing, stirred by Marshy’s innocent dreams. There were
no dragons anymore. They had no right to dream of dragons; neither
of them had. It only made them miserable.

She left the cottage soon afterward.

A block from her doorway she saw soldiers on
the high road coming from the north. Not Sardira’s green-clad
troops, but soldiers uniformed in the garish yellow of the dark
forces and led by drummers beating a slow dirge that chilled her
through. They had come by barge from the north, from the dark huge
continent of Aquervell, there could be no doubt. She slipped up
between houses and onto a tile roof where she could watch
undisturbed.

Forty horsemen, two by two, entered the
palace keep that led to the stables. The eight riders at the head
of the battalion sat their horses stiffly and did not look to left
or right. Their hands on the reins never moved. Their faces above
the yellow tunics were cold and sallow. Kiri swallowed back gall
and wanted to turn and run from them, as far away as she could.

Instead of running, she went quickly through
back ways to the rear of the stable beneath the horsemaster’s
apartments. She slipped in between two haystacks directly behind
the stalls, where she could listen unseen, stood pressed against
the prickly hay trying to hear over the pounding of her own
heart.

Teb burned to get to Garit. The return ride
up to the palace seemed to take forever. He thought of pretending
Seastrider was lame or sick and falling back, riding back alone.
But there were too many eyes to see him. If not the soldiers, then
those within the city itself. Seastrider began to sweat lightly.
Accacia swatted at flies buzzing in the heat and prattled
endlessly. When they reached the stable at last, Accacia insisted
on waiting for Teb while he groomed Seastrider, so she could walk
with him to the late lunch she had planned. She stood well out of
the way as he rubbed the white mare down.

“I should think you would leave such work to
the grooms.”

He ignored her, took his time with the
grooming ritual, hot towels, rubdown, brushing, all of it, as he
tried to invent a way to escape her without causing suspicion, and
get down into the city.

You had best wait, Tebriel. She watches you
too closely.

I must see Garit. It’s why we came
here—partly why.

We will go tonight, wait until tonight.

He worked for some time, slowly, making
Accacia wait. Then suddenly Seastrider began to fidget and paw.

What’s the matter with you?

She turned her head to stare at him.
Can’t you sense it? Someone—a speaking animal, Tebriel.
Nearby.

Well, I suppose so. In the city—

No.
Her ears twitched eagerly.
Here, in the palace itself.

Stop twitching your ears; Accacia is
staring. What animal? Why would a speaking animal come to the
palace?

I don’t . . . A
fox,
Tebriel! Yes. A kit fox.

Can you tell where? Can you tell what it’s
doing?

No. Only . . .
She stood
staring into emptiness for a moment.
Only that it comes to
. . . to see a friend, I think.
Seastrider snorted
and shook her mane.
It comes secretly, Tebriel. By a secret
way.

“Are you nearly finished?” Accacia said.
“They will have let the lunch get cold. Or burnt.”

He went at last, following Accacia, his mind
teeming with curiosity about the fox, and still filled with a
pounding eagerness to find Garit. On top of these thoughts remained
a stubborn picture of Kiri turned back at him, her dark eyes filled
with knowing.

*

The fox sat before the queen waiting for her
to wake, giving little panting huffs to make her stir. It was
noontime, but this room was always filled with thick night. The
lamp burned softly, sending a glow across his silver-white coat.
His tail was bright white, bushy, and there was a dark gray streak
across one shoulder where a knife wound had healed. His eyes were
dark and intelligent, his alert ears thrust forward. He watched the
queen sleeping with her mouth open, said, “Huff,” again irritably,
then in exasperation he gave one muffled, sharp bark, glancing
uneasily at the locked door. The queen opened her pale eyes,
staring at him blankly, then smiled, so all her wrinkles deepened.
She sat up in bed and tried to straighten the covers so he would
have a warm place to sit.

He jumped up when she beckoned, pawed at the
tangle of blanket she had arranged for him, then sat very straight
and regally, regarding her with half amusement and half irritation.
He could never be truly angry with her, but there were times she
tried his patience.

“Did you tell someone about me?” he asked.
“Did you tell Roderica? There was a trap in the passage
tonight.”

“Oh . . .” Her hand flew to her
mouth. “What kind of trap? Not . . .”

“No, not a killer trap. A box trap—but just
as confining, Queen Stephana. Who . . . ?”

“I told no one. You know I wouldn’t. Oh,
that terrible girl, she has been spying on us! Wait until I catch
her, I will flail her.”

“With a whip?” he asked, hiding a smile.

“With words, of course. It’s all I have. Oh,
please . . . you weren’t hurt?”

“Of course not. I sprang it easily, then
fixed it so she can’t use it again. Of course, she will bring
others.”

“Not when I’m through with her.” The queen
looked completely undone. The fox thought it was the first time he
had ever seen her truly concerned about something. He was touched
and flattered. He settled down more comfortably on the nest of
blankets, prepared again to try to change the queen’s stubborn
mind.

He was Hexet, originally of the island of
Kipa in the Benaynne Archipelago. He had escaped the island during
Quazelzeg’s early raids. Hundreds of animals, and some humans with
them, had swum the straits to Bukla and Edain and Dacia as
Quazelzeg’s shipborne soldiers sacked the islands.

Some folk had gone back, and a group of
animals and men had retaken a few of the islands. But it was a
never-ending battle to keep the dark raiders out, successful mainly
because Quazelzeg’s forces were now more urgently occupied on
larger lands. The small islands of the archipelago had little to
offer. They had never been heavily populated. Hexet, with a handful
of others, had come to settle on the rocky, barren southerly tip of
Dacia, hoping to help the resistance movements that were growing
among the animals. He had once been a leader of many foxes and was
known as Hexet the Thief. His small band had been constantly at
work for some five months, stealing food stores from the palace and
ferrying them, with the help of a few otters, around the tip of
Dacia to the sanctuary of Gardel-Cloor, for emergency supplies. War
would come, rebellion would come, but this war would not be lost
through siege and starvation. It was one of the otters who had told
Hexet about the captive queen. Curious, Hexet had found a way in to
her. He had been coming ever since. He sat up now, studying her
old, wrinkled face, seeing the defiance there. She knew very well
what he meant to say. He sat as straight and tall as he could
manage and fixed her with a look of authority.

She stared back at him, her own demeanor
powerful in spite of her ragged, unkempt condition, in spite of her
illness and weakness. A reminder of her true nature looked out for
that instant, queenly and austere. “Can we not just talk? Can you
not simply tell me tales of the fox nation? Do we have to go
through this argument every time?”

“We would not have to argue at all if you
would be reasonable.”

“Or if you would be civil and remember your
manners. One does not defy a queen.”

“I defy you,” he said softly, his dark eyes
gleaming and his sharp teeth showing in a quick snarl. “We
must
join together, all of us must, if we are to save
Tirror.”

“I can save nothing. I am a sick, helpless
old woman and I want only to be left alone.”

“You could save more than you know. If you
would try. If you cared.”

“I can do nothing. I am alone; those skills
are dead and would be of no use anyway without— No one can fight
alone.”

“You are not alone. The hostages from
Merviden have risen, Queen Stephana. They have retaken two cities.
The underground forces move strongly in the nations of the Nasden
Confederacy. You could help them if you cared. You could help
Dacia. You still have power; you know you do. Though it may not be
as strong as it once was.