Ivory Lyre (15 page)

“You seem comfortable with him. And with all
the northern leaders.”

“They . . . are necessary,” she
said candidly. Perhaps she had seen his own distaste at supper.
“And they pass the time pleasantly. What else is there to do in
life but pass the time as pleasantly as you can?”

“I would have thought you would pass the
time with Prince Abisha.”

“I told you he cares nothing for me. It was
Sardira who decreed that we wed.”

“And, of course, it is Sardira to whom you
owe allegiance.”

“We all owe allegiance to the king.”

She wasn’t so open, now, about her personal
life. It was going to be harder to get her to speak freely. He
watched her appraisingly, then put his arm around her and tried to
weave soft thoughts, bringing power around her. He must work
slowly, not ask questions too soon.

“I imagine,” he said lightly, “that you and
the king find the northern leaders exciting companions at the
stadium games, appreciative guests.” He felt her tension, but she
was beginning to relax under his power; her eyes were softer, her
body giving gently against him. “I expect they are, themselves, a
rather exciting game.”

“All life is a game,” she said dreamily.
“What else would it be?” She cuddled sleepily against him.

“A game with the dark,” he said, prompting
her. “An exciting game, Accacia.”

There was a flash of awareness, then her
hands went limp and the last touch of brittleness left her.

“A game with the dark . . . for
what stakes?” he said.

It took all his strength of mind to force
her will to his, but at last she said softly, “Big stakes, perhaps.
If we play their game, give them all they want, we get along very
well. . . .”

“What do they want, Accacia? Pleasure, of
course. Pleasure . . .”

“Yes, pleasure.” She seemed vaguer now. He
must not let her grow disoriented. “And Dacia is . . .”
Her voice drifted off. She was too dreamy. He forced her awake.

“Dacia is . . .” he prompted.

“Dacia is . . . the center. The
city’s favors—women, drugs, and the gambling of the stadium games
. . .”

“And the center for what else?”

“For weapons, supplies, for a war base
. . .”

“And they intend . . . ?”

“To conquer all Tirror, of course. Except
. . . except Dacia.”

“Why is that, Accacia? Why will they leave
Dacia free?”

She stirred against him and sat up
straighter, but still she was docile to his will. She looked at him
softly, waiting. He took her hands in his.

“How do you know,” he asked gently, “that
the dark leaders won’t enslave Dacia with the rest of Tirror
. . . when Dacia is no longer of use to them?”

Her look shuttered suddenly. He pressed his
thought stronger until she relaxed. He let his lips brush her
cheek.

“How do you know they won’t enslave
Dacia?”

“They cannot,” she said dreamily.

“And why is that?”

“There is a powerful talisman in the palace.
It prevents them from subduing Dacia.” She snuggled into his
shoulder. He strained to hold the spell.

“What power, Accacia? What power could be so
strong?”

Suddenly she straightened, pulled away,
staring at him with confusion, then with fear.

Accacia rose angrily and began to pace the
dark garden. The seven candles flickered at her passing. Teb did
not release the effort of his spell but sought to bring her back
into it. When at last she turned, her eyes again held a hint of
sleepiness. She spoke uncertainly.

“What knowledge . . . do you seek,
Prince Tebmund?” She seemed to be trying to remember his exact
words, as if all she could bring to mind was the power in which he
had held her.

What had broken that power?

He brought all the force he could; he felt
the dragons helping him.

“I seek only to understand.”

He was sweating, his body too tense, his
mind torn with haste. The dark leaders would wonder, if they were
gone too long. They could come searching.

Unless they
knew.
Unless it was
their
power that had warned her. He felt the forces of dark
and light battle around him on a scale he could barely comprehend.
As he brought the dragon magic around Accacia, shadows stirred
across her still figure. She came slowly to the bench and sat
beside him. He took her hands, drew her close.

“Trust me, Accacia. Tell me now
. . . what talisman protects the palace of Dacia?” Her
hands were warm within his, relaxed. “What difference would it make
if you tell me? What harm . . . ?”

“What difference . . . ?” She
sighed.

“What talisman prevents the dark from
enslaving Dacia? What power so strong . . . ?”

“The power . . .” She studied
their clasped hands as if puzzling over her own thoughts. ‘The
power of the dragon,” she said heavily.

He stared, his blood racing.
The dragon
. . .

“The power of the dragon’s lyre
. . .”

His pulse had quickened unbearably.
Dragon . . . What did she know of dragons? And the
dragon’s lyre . . . ?
He had never heard of a
dragon’s lyre, yet something stirred his memory to racing, and bard
knowledge exploded, wanting to free itself.

“What is the dragon’s lyre?”

“The dragon’s lyre—the ivory lyre of the
dragon called Bayzun,” she said dreamily.

The word “Bayzun” struck like fire through
Teb, tumbling his thoughts.

He tried to collect his wits. He had no
knowledge of such a lyre or of a dragon named Bayzun, yet his blood
pounded at the words. Then the knowledge did surface, powers beat
at him until soon the whole tale of the lyre had released itself
from the dark side of memory.

The Ivory Lyre of Bayzun. Yes, he could
picture it now—a small white lyre no bigger than the length of his
two hands, a delicate lyre, its strings spun of silver and its thin
fretwork carved with great skill. Carved from the ivory claws of a
huge dragon, the ivory fitted together cleverly. The lyre was
carved from the claws of Bayzun, the grandfather of all singing
dragons.

He knew the lyre was lost. He knew that all
knowledge of it had been wiped away from the minds of men, from the
minds of all bards and dragons. He knew the spell that hid it had
broken at this instant, because of his questioning.
If one bard
or dragon among us seeks it, the memory will come alive.

“Is the lyre here in Dacia?” he asked
carefully.

She nodded.

The lyre had power, great power. It had once
been known to all Tirror. Knowledge of the dwarf who had carved it,
and of the dragon who had given his claws for its making, filled
Teb’s mind.

But another knowledge touched him, too,
woven into the tale of the lyre. There was one object, a stone
tablet, that breached the spell on the lyre. It told the tale of
the lyre and its powers. That tablet, too, must be here in Dacia.
It was the only way the king—and Accacia—could know about the
lyre.

He must find the lyre. The tablet was of no
importance now that the spell was broken. But the lyre
. . .

The Ivory Lyre of Bayzun could give him and
the dragons forces they had not yet touched, to defeat the dark
rulers.

Accacia stirred. “I see you have heard of
the lyre.”

“I have never heard of it,” he said
truthfully. “But its very name sounds magical, and by your look and
the way you speak of it, it must have power.”

“It is a small lyre carved from the claws of
the grandfather of all singing dragons—if you believe in such
creatures.”

“I have heard they are extinct. If they ever
existed.”

“I hope they are extinct. They could be very
harmful to us. The power of the lyre itself is sufficient for us to
keep the dark at bay.” She was becoming more aware once again as
his own concentration lagged. He thought of Garit—if he could find
Garit this night, what news he would have for him. He brought his
force so strong his palms began to sweat.

“Where is the lyre, Accacia?”

“Sardira . . . moves it from place
to place,” she said dreamily. “Treasure rooms . . . all
over the palace.”

But he knew where it was now, or had been
recently. It was that bright magic that had called to him from
behind the locked oak door that guarded the upper treasure room.
“How did King Sardira come by such a power?” he asked softly.

“It . . . I don’t know how it came
here. A warrior brought it, I think. Such things, such dead facts,
are of no importance.” She sighed. “The lyre has the power to drive
back the dark enough so it cannot conquer Dacia. Power—if King
Sardira were to take up arms against Quazelzeg and the dark lords,
enough power, perhaps, even to conquer them.”

Teb stared.

“Sardira,” Accacia said softly, “prefers
that the lyre stand as talisman only, a wall against the dark’s
ultimate power. In this way, Dacia can take advantage of the dark’s
power in safety. Dacia can take advantage of both sides, and yet
remain free of both.”

Teb studied her, understanding Sardira’s
purpose too well. A delicate balance between the perversions Dacia
enjoyed in the company of the dark and Dacia’s total enslavement.
The dark would not know what caused that power, would only know
that some force stood against them.

“If the lyre did not exist, Accacia, and
Dacia were enslaved, what would you do then?”

Her eyes were lidded with sleepiness. “I
would still have my life as I choose. I would still have the
luxuries I want.”

“You would be a . . . friend to
the dark?”

“Yes.”

“And the dark would not crush you?”

She smiled. “I please the dark leaders.”

“And the lyre is kept safe,” he said softly,
pulling her to him, “within the king’s treasuries. How many
treasuries are there?”

“Several. Seven . . . eight.” Her
voice was growing very sleepy. “Some very deep . . . deep
in the core of the mountain, guarded . . . guarded by the
fanged lizards.”

“How would one reach such chambers?”

“Deep passages, a complicated
way. . . .” She kissed him lazily and subsided into
a dreaminess that he did not, again, try to lift.

He sat a moment thinking of the lyre, then
of Garit and the plans they could now make. Then he rose, pulled
Accacia up and led her as one would lead a child, out of the garden
and through halls lit only by her lantern. He left her in an empty
reception room near where he could see the king and the un-men
taking mithnon. He hoped he had blocked all memory of her words
from her. She would find her way to more exciting company now.

He thought about Nightraider riding the
winds alone, searching for Camery. As he went along to his chambers
to change into his old leathers, excitement filled him that he
might see Camery this night, that maybe Nightraider had already
found her. Or maybe she had escaped Ekthuma and found her way to
Garit. He would go down into the city, to Garit first, then to the
stadium where the cats were held. Before he reached the stables, he
found the three dragons waiting for him in the forms of wolves.

They made their way quickly over the route
the mounted entourage had taken, skirting clutches of revelers and
drunks and cadheads. No one bothered them, most backed away from
the wolves, for these were not blinded creatures pulling carts, but
fierce and snarling. Teb kept to the darkest shadows so his face
would not be remembered.

He found Garit’s cottage, making sure by the
position of the tower. The windows were dark, no crack of light.
The steps were rickety, the front porch Uttered with rubble. He
knocked softly. When no one answered, he went around to the back
door and rapped again. There was no crack of light here, either, no
sign that anyone was inside. After a few minutes he tried the door,
found it locked, returned to the front. That door, too, was
bolted.

He tried a shutter and found it securely
fastened. He didn’t want to break in. He thought of leaving Garit
some message, a few words scrawled on a board with a stick, but he
didn’t want it found by someone else. He left at last, flattened
with disappointment, the wolves walking close now in sympathy.

At the stadium they could hear a huge
commotion. A crowd of men was shouting and slamming gates.
Starpounder slipped in through a dark side gate to look, his wolf
form hidden in shadow. He returned to say a band of soldiers was
unloading several bulls and some guard lizards from carts drawn up
inside the arena.
There are too many, Tebriel. We will attract
too much attention. We must return later, when they have
gone.

Yes,
Seastrider said.
In the small
hours when no one is here, we will release the cats, then go to
Garit. Now let us be off to the sky. Wolf forms are not
comfortable, and this city stinks.

They found a hill above the ruins where they
would not be seen. The three began to change, the wolf forms to
grow thin, then transparent.

But they did not turn to dragons. They
remained wolves, thin as cloud, so the rough grass showed through.
It was a long time before Seastrider’s true dragon shape began to
waver over the thin wolf form, huge but only mist—as if the change
into wolf had taken the last of a strangely waning strength. Teb
tried to help her. The other two looked on, shadows of wolves.

Slowly Seastrider grew denser. Her wings
showed thinly against the sky. She became almost solid, she tried
to lift, she flew clumsily—then she faltered and fell to earth like
a crippled bird, becoming only wolf again.

The other two had not changed. Teb felt
their effort, but the evil on them was too powerful. They were
trapped, shivering, their wolf eyes flashing. But they all kept
trying, Teb with every ounce of power in him. At long last, when he
thought it was useless, Seastrider began to find her shape again,
stronger now until she coiled across the hill like thickening mist,
turning whiter, denser, slowly gaining solid form.