Ivory Lyre (6 page)

It was late when Kiri made her way back up
the twisting, noisy streets carrying the two dead rabbits. Gram was
waiting by the hearthfire, worrying as usual. Kiri bolted the door,
hugged her, then poked up the fire to warm the cold evening tea.
They sat cozily, Gram rocking gently, not talking. Gram’s long,
bony hands were busy carding wool from a hank she had traded honey
for—Kiri had collected the honey south of the city in the loft of
an abandoned barn. The veins of Gram’s hands were even darker in
the shadowing candlelight. She watched Kiri crumble her seedcake,
and when she spoke her voice was gravelly with the night’s chill.
Kiri handed her her scarf to wrap around her throat.

“You’re all atangle. Flighty.” She said it
without criticism. “Is Elmmira all right?”

“Oh, yes. Well, maybe she was edgy. She
didn’t say anything.” She looked up at Gram. “What is it? What have
you heard?” For Gram was edgy, too, her bright blue eyes filled
with unease.

“There are more traps out. Along the alleys,
in the fields. Sardira wants speaking animals for the stadium
games. A rag woman told of it; she saw them setting the traps.”

“If I could have warned her . . .”
Kiri said. “You must have heard it after I left.”

Gram nodded. “You’d gone. I was filling the
water jugs.” Gram often heard useful bits of information among
their neighbors. She talked little and listened carefully, and
people told her a good deal.

Kiri made a silent prayer for Elmmira. But
Elmmira was wary. She could smell a trap—she said it smelled like
Sardira’s soldiers. Kiri shivered all the same. Maybe she could
learn where the traps were set, in which alleys, if she soft-talked
one of the stable grooms.

Maybe she could spring those hidden snares
with a stick. That was what Papa would do.

Where was Papa tonight?

Perhaps in some secret cellar meeting with
others of the underground. Or maybe he was in a street tavern,
pretending to be drunk, listening to the loose talk of drunken
soldiers. Kiri closed her eyes and tried to see in the special way
she and her father had. She could imagine his face, his high,
angled cheekbones and square jaw, the laugh lines that made deep
curves to frame his mouth . . . that silent mouth bereft
of speech. She could see his face, but she could bring no real
presence of him this night.

Sometimes if their powers were very strong,
and the powers of the dark relaxed, she could sense his thoughts
and give him of her own. That was next best to really being with
him, to riding together or practicing with bow and sword in the
privacy of the ruing as they used to do. That was before Sardira
branded her father a traitor and imprisoned and tortured him.
Sardira set her father free but mute, thinking he would serve as
example to others who fought for freedom. Thinking that Colewolf
would be useless, with the voice of the bard taken from him.

They had tied him to a table—it had taken
seven men to do that—and cut the tongue from his mouth. He had come
home to lie white and shaken on his cot, spitting blood into a
basin. There was little Gram could do for him; make him broth,
grind salves. His mouth had healed eventually, but his spirit had
not. It was after this that he told Kiri, with messages he wrote on
a slate and with Gram’s help, the truth of her inheritance, that
they bore the blood of the dragonbards. He told her with a touching
sadness that there were no more dragons and perhaps no more bards
than the tiny handful in Dacia. He wrote with great care the
meaning that this inheritance had once held, when the dragons
lived. With the coming of the dark, then the disappearance of
dragons, man’s memory had been nearly destroyed, his experience
wiped away. Without memory and experience, one had no free choice,
for what was there to choose?

Only a few people, strong enough to resist
the spells and drugs of the dark, retained their freedom and fought
back. But even their numbers were dwindling.

“One day,” Gram said, “maybe the dragons
will return. Then the bards will sing with them; then the sleeping
peoples will awaken. Oh, it could happen.” The old woman never lost
hope. No evil was so terrible that Gram no longer had hope.

Gram poured out the last of the tea and
added a dollop of honey, then put her arm around Kiri. Kiri leaned
her head on Gram’s bony shoulder. Gram’s shapeless linen gown
smelled of lye soap. Her thin brown-splotched hands were still.

Kiri sighed. “I guess I miss Papa
tonight.”

“He misses you. He’s proud of you, Kiri, and
of the work you do.” She held Kiri away and looked at her. “The
underground needs you, Kiri, just as it needs Colewolf. You are
together in this.”

There were other spies, of course. Two in
the palace, and a dozen or so in the city.

“Every spy is important, Kiri. But the
dragonbards—you and Colewolf are symbols of the power that once
linked us all.”

Kiri nodded. Her tears came suddenly, and
she felt ashamed. Papa didn’t cry. Why should she?

“War brings forth strange talents,” Gram
said softly. “It brings forth strange feelings, too.” The old woman
hugged her, hard. “Come, tell me more about the wonderful horses of
Prince Tebmund. I would like to see them working on the training
field.”

“Oh, Gram, they are wonders.” Kiri wiped
away her tears, sniffing. “I’ve never seen such horses. They will
rear and strike an enemy on command, will back and kick, and know
all kinds of surprising war tricks. If you will wear your warm
shawl, I’ll take you to watch them. You’ll laugh at Sardira’s
soldiers trying to keep their seats.”

“You should be riding such horses, not the
king’s clumsy troops. Another talent,” Gram said, touching Kiri’s
hand, “another talent that will one day know its own.”

It was not until Kiri lay snuggled in bed
beneath her thick quilt, leaving Gram nodding beside the fire, that
she wondered. What
would
this war bring forth in herself?
What might it force her to discover about herself? Not about the
child Kiri, or the woman-to-be Kiri, but about the other, secret
Kiri whom she hardly knew—the bard. The one who sang sometimes to
the speaking beasts. The Kiri who had such terrible yearnings for a
freedom and power that would never be and that she only half
understood.

Kiri had made Colewolf smile with pleasure
when she sang at the last rebel meeting four months ago in the
secret underground cavern of Gardel-Cloor. She had made a small
song to bring alive times past—had made whispers echo in the
cavern—and the nebulous shadows of people a long time dead.

If she had been paired with a dragon, the
shadows would have come to life, blazing into real figures, the
voices rung out strongly, the passions and desires of generations
become real. But she was only half a power, alone and incomplete.
She sighed. She was gifted, yes. Gram forever reminded her that she
had special gifts. But what good were they, alone?

There were, in all the world of Tirror as
far as Kiri knew, only two other bards besides herself and her
father. There was golden-haired Summer, with eyes like the sea. She
was a capable spy and had gone as servant in the household of the
dark leader Vurbane, on Ekthuma. From there, Summer sent messages
home about the movement of the dark armies, about weapons stores
and supplies. Summer, too, felt an emptiness because she was
dragonbard-born, in a world without dragons.

The other bard was seven-year-old Marshy.
Garit and a handful of resistance soldiers had found him as a baby,
abandoned in a muddy slew. Little crippled Marshy would not believe
there were no more dragons. He insisted on singing his clear-voiced
songs that made hazy images of children long vanished, and tore at
Kiri’s heart. He spoke of the singing dragons as if one day they
would come and lift Tirror out of war. But Marshy was only a little
boy and still a terrible dreamer.

What good did it do that there were four
bards, when there were no dragons?

Her singing had pleased the troops, though.
Maybe it had lightened their spirits. But her powers could wane so
quickly. They seemed strongest in the grotto of Gardel-Cloor.
Elsewhere on Dacia, the murky confusion the dark laid down was too
powerful for her. Then she had only her own eyes and ears and quick
feet to help her. She had not even the dimpled smile and naughty
eyes of Accacia with which to win people’s confidence. If she had
Accacia’s looks, she could be the cleverest spy in all Tirror. And
what did Accacia do with her beauty? Nothing of value, only that
which brought favors, diamonds, velvet gowns, and the most
luxurious apartments in the west tower. Kiri sighed. If she had
half Accacia’s looks, she could learn quickly enough all about
Prince Tebmund.

Well, the first thing to do was take Gram to
watch his horses. If he saw her and Gram admiring them, it would be
easier to get acquainted.

*

Kiri and Gram woke to a foggy morning, the
rooftops and streets below them smothered in white, the black
towers above half hidden. They made their way through the back
halls of the palace and behind the stables, beneath the windows of
the horsemaster’s apartments, then into the dim almond grove.
Across the gaming field, the black stone pergola that housed the
king’s viewing box was filled with soldiers and palace guards and
ladies. Kiri could see the black-robed king seated in his tall
carved chair. All along the stone wall that divided the field from
the stables, grooms and pages stood watching. The horsemaster
watched from the gate. Kiri made Gram comfortable with the
blanket.

The old woman sat entranced as Prince
Tebmund galloped the white mare in circles, then with a touch made
her run backward. They watched her rear on command and strike out,
wheel and kick, duck and drop down crouching as if evading a sword.
Kiri longed to have one chance at such a horse and knew Gram felt
the same.

When the three mounted soldiers began to try
war maneuvers, Gram shook her head. The horses out-turned them and
outthought them, yet these men were powerful horse soldiers. Kiri
took fine delight in their awkwardness. Gram stared at them with
scorn, but her eyes filled with pleasure at the horses and her old
hands twitched, yearning to hold the reins. She had been a fine
horsewoman in her day. Kiri had brought an image of her once, in a
small song sung in privacy and easier to do than bringing a whole
city alive. It was of Gram as a young girl, riding a great piebald
stallion over hurdles.

They walked home slowly, Kiri awash with
regret that the eager old woman was now trapped in that frail,
aging body. She wished she could give Gram one wonderful ride on
those magical horses. The high road was crowded now, with folk
herding sheep and goats, some begging, a few driving loaded carts
to the palace kitchens. At home, she settled Gram by the wood stove
and heated soup for her, then went out again to tend to Accacia.
But when she started up the high road she saw Prince Tebmund on the
white mare coming toward her between carts, the foot traffic making
way for him.

She ducked in behind some cottages, then
wondered at her own timidity. She peered out, unnerved, as he
wheeled the mare lightly and trotted back toward the palace. She
had botched the perfect opportunity.

She watched him ride through the palace
gate, furious at herself. She could not have found a better way to
meet Prince Tebmund than here among crowds where it would seem an
accident. She had ruined it with her unaccountable, gawking
shyness.

Chapter
6

Sour,
Seastrider said, staring at the
faces they passed along the road.
Don’t they know how to
smile?

They haven’t much to smile about,
Teb
said as they turned in through the palace gate.
The girl was
smiling, the page. She went between the cottages back there, the
girl who was watching us from the almond, grove, the one you find
so interesting.

The one
you
find interesting,
Tebriel. The girl we just followed down the high road because
you
wanted to speak to her.
Seastrider switched her tail.
You already know her name is Kiri. She and that old woman know
how to admire a horse, all right. But you have learned little else
about her.

Only that she is cousin to Accacia, and that
her father was once horsemaster in this palace. Perhaps that is
what we see in her, a sympathy and knowledge of fine mounts.

Perhaps, Tebriel.

But what else? Could she be one for whom we
search?

I do not know, Tebriel. She bears watching.
And what of last night’s venture? Didn’t you see her then?

If you know my thoughts, why do you ask
me?

They are not clear. Nothing comes clear in
this dark-ridden place.

I learned little in the city. Twice I fought
off drugged gangs. People were closemouthed, or too drugged to make
sense. As I was coming back up the hill I saw candlelight suddenly
where the cottage door opened, saw a girl’s figure. It was very
dim, but was in the place where her cottage stands. It might have
been Kiri. It was near midnight—strange for a young woman to be
about so late in this cursed city. You are right, as usual. She
interests me. I mean to find out why.

They turned into the stable yard and Teb
slid down, waving a groom away. He stripped off the saddle and
halter, gave Seastrider a quick rubdown and fresh water, then
slapped her on the rump.
Go and play; go eat grass.
She
twitched her ears at him, then wheeled away through the side gate
and sped for the far hills, where her brothers and sister were
grazing. The groom stared after her unbelieving. But he’d had his
instructions. Teb stood watching them, thinking idly that the
horsemaster, Riconder, had been somewhat reserved in his
admiration.
Jealous,
Seastrider had said, and didn’t like
the man. This could pose a problem they hadn’t counted on. Well, no
matter; the king was impressed enough. Teb turned reluctantly back
to the palace, where the king awaited him.