Ivory Lyre (13 page)

“My brothers work with the rebels, Queen
Stephana. The foxes, the otters and wolves, and the great cats.
Many of us have died. You could help us. You could save many.” He
knew her weakness. He moved forward over the tangle of blankets,
put aside his dignity, and lay down with his head in her lap. As
she stroked his lush silvery coat, her face softened. She touched
the soft white fur under his chin with one finger.

“They have died,” he said. “Many foxes have
died slowly, in pain, the same as human children have died.”

He stayed a long time, letting her stroke
him, telling her of atrocities to humans and animals—though it was
the pain of the animals that touched her. She had long ago put away
from herself much empathy for humankind—as if the world of humans
as she knew it, the king perhaps, had betrayed her beyond
redeeming. He left in a flash when he heard Roderica’s key in the
door, then waited far down the passage in darkness.

Roderica discovered the trap and shouted out
with fury before she remembered herself and withdrew into a
protective calm. She didn’t care. It didn’t make any difference;
she didn’t want to fuss around with a dirty fox, anyway. She
listened to the queen’s scolding without emotion, agreed with her
that she had done a bad thing, said she wouldn’t do it again.
Afterward she went on up to the small dining chamber feeling tired
and dull. Accacia’s entourage had returned. Accacia was waiting for
her, tapping her foot. Prince Tebmund and Prince Abisha stood
talking together in a corner. Roderica had passed the newly arrived
captains from the north as they entered the larger dining hall to
take private lunch with the king.

Roderica suffered through lunch in silence,
hating foxes, hating that fox who so charmed the queen and who had
caused her scolding. When the tedious meal was finished, she
watched Accacia lead Prince Tebmund off on a tour of the
palace—whether to keep him out of the way of the visiting army, or
because Accacia was still intent on romance, Roderica didn’t know
or care.

“We will go up to the high wall first,”
Accacia said softly. Her satin dress caught the light of the banked
candles as they left the small dining chamber. “It’s cool there
with the sea wind, for it’s nearly on top of the palace.” She
ushered him into a dark passage. He followed her swinging light
uneasily, wishing he had found a satisfactory way of evading her
after lunch. But Seastrider was right; it was best to wait until
nighttime to go to Garit. Accacia prattled on, thrusting her lamp
into open galleries to pick out black spaces and towering
furniture, telling him which were meeting rooms, which the chambers
of the palace guards and retinue, all seemingly open for
inspection. She made wry comments about the palace residents, and
glided so close to him that he felt quite warm and uncomfortable.
Her voice was too insinuating and personal. Her relationship with
Prince Abisha puzzled him. They were to be wed, but she flirted
with everyone. Maybe Abisha didn’t have the courage to alter her
ways.

The looks between Accacia and the king left
more questions unanswered.

The black passages opened occasionally in a
tall, narrow window shockingly bright with sun. Each one showed
them to be higher up the mountain into which the palace was carved.
Suddenly at a turn in the passage Teb felt a sharp sense of evil.
It lingered for some time, perhaps an aura of evil from the dark
leaders dining in the hall below. Then, as they approached an
ironclad door, a feeling so powerful struck him that he stopped,
staring at the crossed iron strips that bound the oak, his hands
trembling. A feeling of powerful magic, of brightness, of infinite
goodness.

He felt his pulse pounding; he wanted to see
inside. He must find the source of this power.

“The king’s treasure rooms,” Accacia said
casually, though she was looking at him with curiosity. “I do not
have a key, Prince Tebmund. Are you so interested in Sardira’s
treasure as to stand staring, your face gone white?”

“It . . . is the door,” he lied.
“The pattern of crossed strapping on the door reminded me of
something, another door. It stirred unhappy memories, of someone
who died,” he said, pleased with his inventiveness. He took her
hand. “Come, let’s find the top of this grand maze, so we can have
a real view of the city.”

The sense of goodness followed him strongly
as they moved up the black stone passages to a flight of narrow
steps. At the top of these, they faced a tall arch filled with sky.
Beyond was an open walkway, where they stood looking down upon the
city, the wind tugging at them.

She moved close to him. “The view pleases
you, Prince Tebmund?”

“It is magnificent.” But his mind was on the
treasure room.

She touched his cheek. He ignored her,
studying the city laid out below, seeing it clearly now in daylight
where, from the sky, it had been too dark. He could see the route
they had taken that morning. He tried to see the ruined tower near
Garit’s cottage. Accacia pressed her shoulder against him, clasping
her arms around herself in the chill wind.

“How long have you lived in the palace?” he
asked absently, wishing she would keep her distance.

“Always. Didn’t I tell you that? My father
was a captain to the king. He died in battle, but my uncle was
horsemaster, so, of course, I stayed. Then—” She brushed a fleck of
dust from his sleeve and looked up at him openly.

“I was Sardira’s mistress, before his dying
wife made such a fuss. I’ve never understood that. The king moved
me to the west tower and promised me to Abisha. He promised
her
he would not take another queen, though she is bedridden
and useless.” Accacia sighed. “What power she has over him, to make
him adhere to such a promise, I cannot really say. Why should she
be so selfish? She has lived past her time. She talks of dying but
she does not intend to do it.”

Teb turned away, shocked and angry at her
rudeness. Maybe she had had more wine at the noon meal than he
noticed. A flock of small brown birds came tumbling in the wind,
nearly into their faces. Teb swallowed his anger and smiled down at
her. If she was feeling her wine, he would not waste a good
opportunity. Already her guide to the location of various guards’
quarters had been worthwhile and could prove useful. Information
about the queen might be very useful indeed.

“The old queen must be a tyrant,” he said
lightly.

“She’s a bitter old woman who weaves her
days around palace gossip, and is a burden to the king.”

“And is the crippling she suffers a painful
one?”

“Oh, yes,” Accacia said casually. “She
should have been dead long ago.”

“She makes life difficult for you?”

“Not particularly. I make my own life.” She
gave him a slow, warming look and drew her hand softly down his
cheek.

He took her wrists gently and held them. “I
would not distress Prince Abisha by making light with his
betrothed,” he said coolly.

“It would be difficult to distress Abisha.
He cares nothing for me.” At his surprised look, she smiled. “Most
royal marriages are made for convenience, Prince Tebmund. Is it not
so in your country?”

“My parents married for love. Perhaps I am
old-fashioned in thinking that even a royal marriage should be
so.”

“Unrealistic would describe your view more
exactly.” She turned away and started along the narrow stone
balcony that wrapped itself around the juttings of the mountain,
lost to view ahead of them. They walked slowly, the lamp’s flame
faded to a transparent ghost in the sunlight. Teb felt Accacia’s
stubborn desire for him as strong as the eastern wind that pushed
up from the sea. Deliberately he turned his mind from her. They did
not speak again until they began to descend, when she took his
hand.

“The leaders from Aquervell will be at the
supper table tonight, Prince Tebmund.”

“Supper should be an elegant affair.” He
assumed all the private discussion would have been finished by
suppertime. He would give a lot to hear those conversations. “Are
the Aquervell captains frequent visitors to Dacia?”

“They come fairly often. They enjoy the
. . . pleasures of the city.”

Pleasures, he thought with disgust. He was
sure the un-men enjoyed them. Their presence here would make things
difficult. He hoped he and the dragons had enough power to shield
themselves from discovery. The dark would come down with everything
it had if it discovered the truth.

Maybe he should send the dragons away at
once, go by himself into the city to Garit, disguise himself and
work with the resistance from there.

Yet if the unliving did sense him and follow
him, he would lead them straight to Garit. He had better face the
dark leaders head-on. Do it boldly, and at once.

What he meant to do
was
bold, and
dangerous. The dark would be closer to the dragons than it had ever
been.

He knew from Seastrider how strong the
shape-shifting power had grown. The dragons had reluctantly agreed
to suffer the indignity of being touched and ridden by the
unliving, if they must. He knew also that with increased
shape-shifting power, danger increased: The shape-shifter might not
be able to return to his true form. The very magic that held the
shape steady even in the face of dark forces could well freeze the
dragons into their alien shapes permanently.

Yet if he did not offer the use of the
horses to the dark leaders, they would demand it. It was better to
offer and keep the upper hand. This experience would not come
easily for the dragons, would be painful and unnerving for
them.

“How long will the leaders from the north be
staying?” he asked, watching her. “Perhaps they would like to try
my horses . . . learn their special fighting skills.”

“I think the king mentioned it to them. I
suppose there would be buyers among them.”

They descended the south parapet with
Accacia walking close, her honeyed scent heavy around him. He left
her at the north tower stair, pleased with the bits of information
he had gleaned, annoyed he had not gotten more. He went quickly
toward the stables with a sudden sense of unease, a sudden turmoil
of fury that was not his own.

He found the four horses sweating in their
open stalls, their retreat blocked by a ring of yellow-uniformed
soldiers. A captain of the dark was trying to put a halter on
Starpounder. Teb heard the black stallion scream, found him rearing
and striking at the heavy-shouldered captain, his fury so great Teb
could already see a faint dragon-image ready to surface. He raised
his hand and shouted. Starpounder paused rearing, came down to
strike his front hooves inches from the captain’s head, his teeth
bared, his eyes burning with a wildness that no true horse could
match.

The captain did not step back. His face was
frozen into a sallow mask of contempt.

The un-man was no taller than Teb, but
broader and heavier, with shoulders humped forward, drawing a line
of wrinkles across his yellow tunic. He took Teb’s measure with
flat gray eyes, then turned back to face Starpounder. The
stallion’s face, with lips drawn back, was pulled into a killer’s
smile. His body was poised ready to strike again. When the captain
thrust the halter at his head, Starpounder exploded, rearing,
striking. Teb shouted and grabbed him—he came to the ground and
backed off, but still he was tensed like a spring, pressing against
Teb, glowering at the unman.

“Get away from him, Captain. You cannot
halter him; no one can unless you know the signals.”

The captain’s voice was as flat and
expressionless as his eyes. “Then show me the signals. How do you
expect to sell creatures that will not obey and submit?”

“The stallion will obey the man to whom he
is sold. I will teach the signals to that man.”

“Show them to me. Now.”

“When you have purchased and paid for the
animal, I will do so.”

The un-man’s fury was like the silent lash
of a whip. “Do you know who I am?”

“You are a captain of the army of Aquervell,
and so captain to Quazelzeg.”

“I am High Captain Leskrank. I am captain to
Supreme Ruler Quazelzeg, and to General Vurbane, ruler of Ekthuma,
as well. I serve them on special mission. I desire to ride this
stallion.”

“I will be most happy to oblige,” Teb said,
controlling his anger. “But
I
will halter and saddle him.”
Be still, Starpounder. You agreed to it; now swallow your fury
and bear it.

Starpounder glowered at Teb, snorting, ears
back, then came to him reluctantly. He put his head into the halter
Teb held, but Teb could feel the effort it took. Teb stroked the
stallion until at last he felt the fury of the dragon subside and
calm. He saddled Starpounder with Leskrank’s own black war saddle,
the sword still dangling at its side. He tightened the girth and
gave the halter reins to the heavy-shouldered, gray-faced leader.
Leskrank stared at the thin halter but evidently had been told,
perhaps by Sardira, that was all Teb allowed on the horses.

“You must remove your spurs first,” Teb
said. “He will not tolerate spurs.”

The man gave Teb a cold stare. “I am used to
being master of my mounts. This stallion will learn that, when he
belongs to me.” He moved to mount. Starpounder backed away and
would not let the captain near him. Leskrank jerked the halter
strap, but that did not faze Starpounder.

“When you remove your spurs,” Teb said, “he
will let you mount docilely.”

Leskrank did so at last, and Starpounder
came forward to stand still as the heavy captain mounted. Teb could
feel the tension of the other three horses, could see the
dragonfire behind their eyes. He slipped Seastrider’s halter on and
swung onto her back, to ride beside Captain Leskrank. The other
soldiers drew back from Windcaller and Nightraider, who stood
eyeing them with challenge.