Ширли Мерфи - The Ivory Lyre

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?”