“We do not know,” Vurbane said, “how the girl was warned—if she was. But we will find out,” he said coldly. “There was a wild story about some huge owl swooping down over the market moments before the troops arrived. My slow-witted peasants believed it alerted her—laughable, what the ignorant believe.”
Teb ate slowly, tasting nothing. Could it be Camery? Pale, blond . . . young. . . and on the island where Nightraider had sensed someone. And the owl . . .
It was the big owl, Red Unat, who had brought word that Camery was gone from the prison tower in Auric. Red Unat worked with the resistance, had given his whole commitment to tracking the dark. Teb’s thoughts were cut short by Nightraider’s silent voice.
She is my bard. I still do not sense her, but if she is there—I will search Ekthuma for her.
Teb sensed the cold wind as the black dragon leaped skyward.
I will search for her. . . .
Nightraider was gone.
“We closed off the five crossings,” Vurbane was saying, “and kept watch for several days. We turned out the cottages and shacks, searched thoroughly, but no sign of the wench.” Vurbane touched his scar. “She could not have escaped Ekthuma, unless she swam to her death in the sea.
“Very likely,” he said, smiling, “she took her own life in one way or another. Her kind will do that.” His eyes gleamed. “We will find her body eventually. Unless the sharks ate her.”
His purple-tinged smile and glinting eyes sickened Teb.
“Suicide,” Vurbane said, tasting the word, savoring it. “It is interesting to watch suicide. It sometimes has amusing results. Such panic, such commitment and dedication, to—what? Why do they fight so hard, these dedicated peasants? There was a crone, a rag woman on Cayub who threw herself into the sea when my troops overtook her, impaled herself on a spiked rock and lived three days gasping for help. The troops waited to see her die.” He licked his lips. “Then that tin vendor that set himself afire—and afforded my soldiers an unexpected and interesting entertainment. Unfortunately, I missed it. There are too few such diversions,” he said pleasantly, “in these dull times. That is why, my dear Sardira, we like so much to make these refreshing visits to Dacia. Now tell me, what is the nature of the contestants for tomorrow’s stadium games? And what nature of . . . other entertainment have you provided? We have been limited in our pleasures far too long, training on that cursed rock island off Ocana, at the ends of nowhere.”
“We have some new young slaves,” King Sardira said. “Boys and girls.” His robed figure in the huge carved chair was a pool of blackness at the head of the table. His thin lined face seemed now, in comparison with the gray pallor of the eight unliving, really very healthy and alive. His suggestion of the use of boys and girls disgusted Teb.
“There are a few horses ready to be put down,” the king said. “We might bring out some of my guard lizards from the vaults; their teeth are excellently sharp. We have the blind wolves you shipped to us from Aquervell, of course. Ah, and we have captured some of those cursed speaking cats, my dear Vurbane. They’re fighters, all right, and should make good sport, pitted against anything of your choice. Too bad we don’t have your little escapee to run in with them. We will drug the bulls with cadacus; it makes them crazy. They will make excellent sport with those cats clawing in panic for their lives.”
Teb listened with revulsion. The capture of any animal tore him with rage, but that speaking animals would be tortured made his fury rise so it was all he could do not to leap up and beat the king to a pulp. He held himself rigid until his temper eased under control.
He meant to release those cats.
Yet he could sacrifice much if he failed. He was very close now to learning something that could be vital. He must find the source of bright magic in the locked treasure chamber. He must not be captured before he did.
He felt sure Accacia knew what that magic was, and when supper was at last finished, he maneuvered her away while the officers were rising and Vurbane had gone up to speak privately with the king. He gave Accacia a smile. “Will you show me a little more of the palace before you join the general and his captains?”
She glanced toward Vurbane, saw him and the king deep in conversation, then took Teb’s arm. “Perhaps a short walk, Prince Tebmund.”
She led him up a side stair to an upper landing that overlooked the dining hall, then out along the parapet as before, but in the opposite direction. They descended a second, winding flight. “There are terraces here, Prince Tebmund, between the chambers and the wall of the mountain. I have a favorite.”
They came to a gate of iron wrought into the shapes of branches and leaves, then into the closed terrace it sheltered, a small, dark garden lit by seven candle lamps, walled by the mountain at the back and planted with damp ferns and twisting vines. It was chill and dismal, with only a thin view of the stars. The palace wall that edged the garden was black stone, carved into pierced patterns. There was no sense of either good or evil, only of isolation. She pulled him down onto the black bench, brushing a leaf away.
“This is pleasant, Prince Tebmund.” Her eyes were warm, soft, in the candlelight. “I find you very compatible—to walk with, to be with. Far more so,” she said, “than even General Vurbane.”
“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 longe
r 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.
Chapter 13
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 n
ight, 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.
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