Ivory Lyre (18 page)

“I . . . don’t know. Something
. . .” She had a sense of huge crowds, deafening noise,
could feel chains binding her and felt she was clutching at iron
bars, felt rage not her own. . . .

Then, as suddenly, it was gone. She stared
at Garit, confused.

“The stadium,” she whispered, her throat
tight. “I don’t know what—or who. Garit, something is happening at
the stadium. Someone needs help.” She felt as if forces like
ripples in water were reaching out to snare her thoughts. “It is
the lyre,” she said, “the power of the broken spell, helping me
see.” She turned on her side clutching the pillow, hurting and
dizzy, watched vaguely as Garit pulled on his boots and strapped on
his sword. Their eyes met.

“I was about to go there,” he said, “when
you woke. Our people are there, all our forces. What did you see in
vision, Kiri? Can you tell me?”

“Chains. And bars . . . someone is
chained in the cages.”

His eyes showed fear. His face tightened. He
moved to the window and pulled a shutter open enough to see the
sky. “There is time,” he said. “They will do nothing to
. . . a prisoner until the games begin. Another hour or
more.”

She pushed her covers back. ‘Too warm. I
will eat the broiled liver now; then I’ll feel better—as strong as
the stadium bulls.”

“Not strong enough to go out. I expect you
to stay here while I’m gone.”

“No. I’m going with you.”

“You’re not fit.”

“I am, and I’m hungry.”

He sliced the liver and brought it to her
with two slabs of buttered bread. It tasted so good she had to stop
herself from wolfing it. There was milk, too, and an apple. Garit
was sharpening his knife. Her mind was still filled with the
vision, powerful and frightening. It was no good to wonder who was
caged; they would find out soon enough. Her thoughts turned to the
lyre’s spell . . . then she caught her breath.

Memory of the lyre will live again when
dragons and bards come together. . . .

But there were no more dragons. No dragons
. . . If there had been dragons, they would have come to
find their bards. The rest of the spell had happened,
though. . . .

When even one among them seeks
it
. . . . Yes, she had sought that knowledge and
broken the spell as she stood behind the screen eavesdropping on
Accacia and Prince Tebmund . . .
Tebriel. . . .

Or had she?

She had only been eavesdropping. She had not
actively sought that knowledge.

But Tebriel
had
sought it. He had
made Accacia talk, had questioned her pointedly. He had sought very
specific knowledge. It was Tebriel’s power that had made Accacia
tell about the lyre. Tebriel . . . had sought
it. . . . She raised up to stare at Garit.

“Who
is
he, Garit?
Who is
Tebriel?”

He turned to look at her.

“You didn’t tell me all of it.”

“There is a mark on his arm,” he said. “I
thought not to tell you until I was sure it was Teb. There is the
mark—of the dragon. On his left arm, just here,” he said, pointing
to a place halfway between wrist and elbow on the inside of his
left arm.

She frowned, then shook her head. “There is
a scar there. I saw it when I looked at his horses. I didn’t notice
a mark.”

“It is very small—perhaps a scar would hide
it. You looked at his horses?”

“Yes.”

“And how did they respond to you?”

“They were loving. Sweet and nuzzling and
dear. But I’ve heard they’re not that way with the soldiers. And
they hate Accacia. I watched through a crack in the barn and
thought the big black stallion would kill her.”

Garit looked at her strangely but said
nothing.

She stared back at him, her mind filled with
Tebriel . . .
dragonbard. . . .
“I
must find him, Garit. No,” she said, seeing his face, “I want to do
it. I must. I will ask the proper questions. I will make
sure. . . . The bright tapestries of other worlds,
his mother’s favorite color, his pony, Linnet
. . . I
want to find him. . . .” Dragonbard
. . .

“There is another who would know him, Kiri.
Without asking questions.”

“You would, of course. But Garit, he—”

“Another besides myself.” He sat down on the
bed and took her hand. “If he is Tebriel, Summer will know
him.”

She studied his face. “You mean because
Summer is a bard? But so am I. He . . .” Her mind was
filled again with that powerful vision of the stadium, of chains
and bars, and now with much more, for now she knew who was chained
there and her pulse pounded with urgency. She sat only half
listening to Garit, knowing the prisoner was the prince
. . . Tebriel. . . dragonbard . . .
caged and chained in the stadium.

“Summer is Tebriel’s sister, Kiri. His
sister—”

She could hardly attend to Garit. “But
. . . Summer comes from Zinsan.”

“No. That is only the story we used to
protect her. Summer is Tebriel’s sister. Her name is Camery. I
brought her away from imprisonment in the tower of Auric when she
was fourteen. But you—Kiri, are you all right?”

“He
is
Tebriel. He is a dragonbard.
It was he who broke the spell of the lyre, not me. It is he in the
stadium, he who made the vision of bars and chains . . .
asking for help—”

They were interrupted by a soft brushing
against the door. Garit peered out through a crack, then pulled the
door open. The great cat pushed in, the big-boned tom with the
black-brown coat, and eyes like yellow moons.

“Xemmos!” Garit said. “What— You all should
be hidden in Gardel-Cloor. The stadium games . . .”

“That is why I have come. Word came by way
of an escaping wolf. Prince Tebmund of Thedria has been taken
prisoner, along with his great bear. He is chained in a cage at the
stadium and the bear locked into a cage next to him.”

There was no more talk; Garit left at once
for the stadium, pulling on a loose leather coat to hide his short
crossbow and sword. Xemmos leaped away to return to Gardel-Cloor,
to fetch Summer. Kiri rose and dressed in a leather tunic that
would cover the bandages and cover a short sword. Perhaps it would
also hide the fact that she walked bent over, from the pain. War
would begin today, she felt certain of it. Their forces, no matter
how unready, could not allow the murder of a dragonbard in the
stadium games.

She went as quickly as she could, gritting
her teeth against the pain, through streets now nearly deserted. As
she neared the stadium, the noise was deafening, for nearly the
entire city crowded to get in. She hated the ugliness of this and
felt her stomach quease with sickness.

She had served as page in the king’s plush
private box—at Accacia’s request—often enough to have had her fill
of the screaming and blood. Nothing ever died quickly; all was
drawn out so the dark leaders, always present, could take ultimate
pleasure in the pain and terror. She had stood beside the purple
satin drapings that lined the king’s box, seeing Accacia’s laughing
face, wondering how her cousin could bear it.

She had always wanted to find gentleness in
Accacia, and kindness, but she never had. She shouldered through
the outer crowds, showed herself to a guard who was one of their
own, and slipped through the little gate ahead of everyone else.
Catcalls and jeers followed her for her special privilege, but
likely they only thought she was a prostitute currying the guard’s
favor. Her cheeks burned at that thought. Ahead, beyond the
milling, shouting crowd, she could see the tops of the barred
cages.

The fox abandoned subtlety and manners, and
gave the sleeping queen a sharp poke. “Wake up! It’s Hexet!”

The queen stirred, brushing at her thin,
tangled white hair, looked up over the mass of blankets, and
scowled at him. “Go away. Don’t poke me. Where are your manners?
Come back when you can speak softly, the way I like.”

Gently, he laid a paw on her cheek and
looked deep into her pale eyes. He would like to nip her and rout
her out of that bed. “Wake up properly. It’s urgent— something
vital and urgent.”

She sat up in a storm of blankets and stared
at him. “I don’t like
urgent.
Or
vital.”
But she put
out her thin old hand to him and stroked his back. “What is it?
What is this all about? I’ve never seen you so—”

“Agitated,” he supplied. “I am agitated and
angry, and you must get up out of that bed at once.”

“Are you telling me what I must do? I am a
queen. You are only—”

“A dignitary in my own nation,” he said,
“and equally as important as you. And far more useful to the world,
considering our respective talents.”

“What does that mean? You are making
double-talk.”

“I am only speaking the truth.” He settled
down into the pile of covers, nuzzled her cheek gently, then placed
a soft paw against her thin lips. “Now listen. I will tell you
something, and I don’t want interruptions. It must be told, Queen
Stephana. And you must listen.” He removed his paw and sat looking
at her.

She started to tell him there was nothing
she
must
do, then changed her mind and settled back against
the headboard, sighing, pulling the blankets around her.

He bobbed his chin with satisfaction. “It is
about Prince Tebmund. You told me he had visited with you.”

Her face went closed with apprehension. She
searched his face, then nodded reluctantly.

“Did you like him? Did you feel kinship with
him?”

Her eyes blazed, as if he had spoken of
something private that was not his right to consider.

“Did you?”

“What if I did. He is a nice enough young
man.”

“What kinship, Queen Stephana? There is not
much time. Do you know what kind of kinship?” He watched her, saw
the spark of fear in her eyes. She did not want to discuss this.
Yet he saw something more, too. Something strange, alien to her. He
saw tears start.

“He is the same as you, Queen Stephana. He
is a dragonbard.”

Despite the tears, her eyes went wild at
this effrontery. And with this truth, for she could not deny it. He
moved closer, touching her with his nose.

“Prince Tebmund has been taken captive. He
is chained in the stadium.”

Her eyes flew open.

“The king intends to use him in the games.
He will die today, Queen Stephana, if you do not get up out of that
bed and help him.”

“Die?” She breathed, her eyes searching and
wild. Then her look was shuttered. She lifted her chin and regarded
him steadily. “I can do nothing. What could I do?”

He stared at her in silence.

“What difference if he dies?” she shouted
suddenly, her anger seeming to make her grow larger. “What
difference? What good is he? What good am I?” She stared at Hexet,
furious. Then, in a whisper, “What good is a dragonbard without
. . . without dragons?” Her anger boiled out again. “That
part of the prophecy was wrong! There are no more dragons!” She
fixed Hexet with a defiant stare. Then she shrank into herself, and
sat cowering in her blankets.

“What prophecy?” he said sharply. “What are
you talking about?” Then, at her silence, “You must tell me. Is it
a prophecy that has to do with Prince Tebmund? With
dragonbards—with yourself? Where did you hear it?” He watched her,
tense with excitement. “You must tell me. You must!

“Only you can help him,” Hexet said softly.
“If you do not, they will kill him.”

He saw she was weakening. “His murder will
be a curse on your soul, Queen Stephana.”

She stared at him in misery. He pushed his
nose against her cold hands, but his look was hard, demanding.

At last she seemed to relax, to soften, to
give up the battle. Her eyes were pained, and somehow younger. And
then, so suddenly that she startled him, she was weeping, deep,
racking sobs that alarmed him.

He had never seen her so out of control. Had
she taken some of the drug? Roderica kept it here, did not put it
into her food, took it herself sometimes, which explained, Hexet
thought, Roderica’s wild changes in temperament. He pressed against
the queen, and the old woman put her arms around him and bawled
wetly into his shoulder.

When she subsided at last, she told him
about the lyre, how the sudden knowledge of it had exploded in her
mind when the spell was shattered.

‘There is power here in this palace. I never
knew—he kept me locked away from it.”

Hexet did not point out to her that she had
allowed herself to be locked away, had welcomed it. But her face
was filled with the shame of that.

“I did it only because there were no more
dragons. Because I was all alone. . . .”

Hexet leaned close to her. “There
are
dragons,” he said softly. “I believe there are dragons.” He looked
up into her faded eyes. “I believe there are dragons here on Dacia.
I have good reason to believe it.” He saw a spark come alive, a
germ of yearning and fire. “I believe, Queen Stephana, that if you
will do as I say—now, today—I believe that you will see them.”

*

News of the bear-creature that had killed
two of Sardira’s soldiers exploded into gossip that spun across the
city like wildfire, increasing the number of dead soldiers tenfold
and painting the bear tall as the palace. Tales spun from urchin to
shopkeeper to brothel and tavern, then out along the streets. Soon
no one in the city was ignorant of the killer bear that had been
captured and would star in the stadium games, pitted against its
own master, against bulls and the horse-sized lizards. The city,
wild for the sight of blood, laid odds thirty to one, fifty to one,
all in favor of the bear. Well before the stadium games began, the
five gates to the stands were jammed with shouting commoners
sucking on clay bottles of mithnon and sniffing cadacus or licking
it from the backs of dirty hands. Small children came glaze-eyed,
shouting for gore, and when the gates were thrown open the crowds
stormed into the stands, the drunks and cadheads screaming and
stamping, pushing their fellows off the stone bleachers onto the
heads of others. Before the games began, more than a dozen citizens
lay dead, ignored by their seething fellows, and others had crawled
away injured.