Ширли Мерфи - The Ivory Lyre

“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 longer 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.