The Ivory Lyre

Chapter 15

Kiri huddled against a broken wall in an old stone ruin, sick with pain where the soldier had stabbed her, dizzy with the loss of blood. She listened for the sound of running feet, pressing at the wound in her side to stop the bleeding. At last she knelt, tore a strip off her skirt, and bound the long gash so tightly she could hardly breathe. She had foolishly left her knife in the soldier. She hoped he was dead, but she wished she had it back.

She thought the creature in the arena must have been a bear; but there were no more bears on this side of the world. And who was the man with it? Where had he come from, there in the lonely arena in the small hours of night?

She turned to look up the rubble-strewn hill and caught her breath. There he was, a black silhouette in the first touch of dawn, riding the huge bear and followed by a tangle of fast-moving shapes that she soon made out to be Elmmira, the other cats, and maybe wolves. It was too dark to see his face. She wanted to follow, to call out, and knew she mustn’t be seen. If she was caught out in the open, wounded, they would soon know who stabbed the king’s soldier. She felt so weak. Even her vision seemed blurred. She needed shelter, needed someone to help her. She knew the cats would go to Gardel-Cloor and longed to go with them, but she mustn’t be seen with them. They would have care at Gardel-Cloor, rest, and salves for the burns. Marshy was there, with Summer.

She moved out of the ruined building at last and on through the rubble, supporting herself against broken walls. When she felt faint again, she leaned on a partial stair rail, then sat down on the bottom of three standing steps, her head between her knees until the sickness went away.

At last the ruins ended. She forced herself out onto the open streets where a few people were at the cow pens or emptying dirty water into the gutters. She dared not go home so close to the palace; a neighbor could report that she was wounded. She did not want to draw attention to Gram. She didn’t think she could make it down the steep cliff to Gardel-Cloor.

Only Garit could help her, yet she was terrified of being followed there, covered with blood. It was true dawn now, far too light. She caught a woman staring at her, and at the next corner she snatched a heavy shirt from a fence rail and slipped it over her tunic. It was still damp from laundering, and chilly. She felt dizzy again, confused. What street was this? Why didn’t it look familiar? She leaned against a stone wall, trying to get her bearings. She thought she was going to throw up; everything around her seemed smeared and unclear. When a shadow moved nearby, she froze. Was someone following her? She crouched against a wall, the pain making her gasp, and searched for shelter ahead. Behind her the shadow moved again. She caught her breath. . . .

It was Elmmira. The great cat leaped to join her, pressing against her. “Come on my back; be quick.”

She slipped onto Elmmira’s back as easily as she could, trying not to touch the horrible burns, and hot tears filled her eyes at Elmmira’s pain, that the great cat would do this when she herself should be cared for. She clung to the rhythm of Elmmira’s gallop, her nostrils filled with the smell of burnt fur, two crippled creatures fleeing through the city. A shout behind them made Elmmira swerve, running flat out. Kiri lay low as they dodged down a narrow alley and around corners. The jarring sent jabs of pain through Kiri; then Elmmira leaped so high Kiri barely stayed with her. They had gone over a fence. When Elmmira stopped suddenly, Kiri thought they were cornered; then she heard Garit’s voice.

She felt herself lifted, the pain searing her.

She remembered nothing more until she woke with bright sun seeping through the shutters. She was in Garit’s bed, the covers pulled up warm. Garit sat watching her.

“Where is Elmmira?” Kiri cried. “Did she get away?”

“She is safe—all the cats are. They are gone from the city down into Gardel-Cloor, and the poor wolves, too.”

“But they—”

“No one will find them in the tunnels. There is power there, Kiri, in the stone.”

“But they need doctoring. The burns . . .”

“Marshy and Summer are there with them. I have been down, and taken roots for the salve.”

She started to raise up but pain flared in her side. She felt the pull of bandages as she settled back into the pillows. “Did Elmmira tell you what happened?”

“Yes.”

“A man was there in the stadium with a huge animal—a bear. They killed two soldiers. I might be dead now, but for them. Who was he, Garit? They didn’t catch him? Did he get away?”

He put his hand over hers. “Too many questions. You must rest. The young man escaped on the back of a great silver bear.”

She sighed. “I might have helped him, I might have stayed. I knew he would release the cats—why else would he come? When I felt the knife in me and the blood flowing, all I could think was, I mustn’t be found there dead. . . . Because of Papa, that it would link him to the resistance.”

“Yes, I know, Kiri.”

“But he released the animals? They all got away? Who was he?”

“He released them all. It was Prince Tebmund.”

She stared at Garit. “Then he is your Prince of Auric. He is Tebriel.”

“There is no real proof of that. Here, drink this broth. I am roasting a calf's liver for you, for strength.”

She accepted the bowl of broth and breathed in its steamy fragrance. She began to sip it, then sucked it in greedily.

When she had finished, she lay watching Garit as he turned the roasting liver over a small bed of coals.

“It may have been Tebriel,” he said. “It may not.” But his eyes were bright with hope.

Her head began to feel clearer, and she remembered she had something to tell Garit. “I was coming to tell you . . . something important. . . but I passed near Elmmira’s den and saw her in the trap, and . . .”

“What were you coming to tell me?” he said gently.

She sat up despite the pain and held out her hand to him. He came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I listened to Prince Tebmund and Accacia talking last night. He made her say things, Garit. It was amazing—I thought he laid a spell on her.” She gripped his hand hard, filled with excitement. “Do you know why the dark cannot enslave Dacia?”

“I thought it simply would not. That it found Dacia a more convenient go-between as it is.”

‘There is another reason.”

He waited.

“The dark cannot, Garit. There is a talisman of power there in the palace, more powerful than Gardel-Cloor. It is the Ivory Lyre of Bayzun.”

He shook his head. The words meant nothing to him.

She described the lyre for him, described the ancient dragon laying his spells. She felt a chill of wonder at the way the story had come suddenly, whole, into her mind as she stood peering into the dark garden. It must have come into Colewolf’s mind at the same moment, and Summer’s and Marshy’s, too. The spell of forgetting had been broken when one bard sought the truth. She knew she must be that bard, come to listen, hiding behind the pierced black screen.

“But,” Garit said, “whether the king was given the lyre or found it quite by accident, he would not have known what it was, not known about its power . . . unless there was some written record.”

“There was a carved tablet, made by the dwarf who watched Bayzun die. But how Sardira got that tablet, I don’t know.”

They stared at each other, both filled with the meaning such power would have, to destroy the dark forces. “We must have it,” Garit said. “We must have the lyre.”

“Yes.” She lay back, dizzy and weak again, her mind gone foggy. Then slowly a sense of terrible distress filled her, so she reached out blindly, clutching at air.

“What is it? Kiri?” His face seemed to swim before her, concerned, frightened. “What is happening? Kiri?”

“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.