Ширли Мерфи - The Ivory Lyre

But Teb surveyed the treasure room with disappointment. There was no sense of the lyre here, no hint of the magic he had felt in the palace above. Then Gram caught her breath sharply and he spun, sword drawn.

Accacia stood in the doorway flanked by four green-clad soldiers, their blades catching the light. Teb flung the lamp at them and spilled fire over one, struck another with a blow that sent him rolling among the treasure, moaning. He faced the other two crouching, and caught a glimpse of Gram snatching up something bright from the treasure heap. He countered the two blades, trying not to be backed into the tangle of treasure and tripped, fighting close and hard with short jabs. Soon one soldier was down, but the other had drawn a knife and ducked under Teb’s blows—then he went down suddenly, his head lolling against his shoulder. Gram stood over him, the hilt of a gold ax tight in her two thin hands. Accacia snatched up his fallen blade and swung. Teb tripped her, forced the blade from her, and forced her down with his knee. She glowered up at him as he pulled off the heavy cord that bound her hair.

“Tie her hands, Gram.”

Gram tied her hands roughly, the two scowling at each other. There was no love between these two. Accacia’s eyes were hard, her mouth set in a scowl.

Teb looked her over coldly. “Why did you come here? Why did you follow us?”

She stared at him, mute and furious.

“You came because you knew I would search for the lyre,” he said more gently. “But why didn’t you just tell the king, let him deal with me?”

Her look remained defiant, but he saw a flash of some deeper anger, too.

“You are angry with the king,” he said softly, testing her. “The king has kindled such fury in you—” He saw her look grow uncertain and felt a rising strength in himself. “You came here to spite the king,” he said, and saw his guess was the truth. “You followed me, Accacia, hoping . . . to discover me with the lyre.” Yes, he saw the truth in her eyes.

‘To find you with it,” she said, “take you captive and present you to the king. Show the king . . . show him “

“He was cruel to you.”

“He was furious. He thought I told the queen that you were captive in the stadium. I told him it was Roderica, but then Roderica, the little traitor—” She paused, scowling.

“Go on, tell me all of it.” There seemed no need to charm her now; her anger made her speak, spilling hatred.

“I told him it was Roderica. I know her—everything for the queen. Sardira grabbed Roderica’s arm to keep her from running out of the stadium when . . . when the dragons—” She swallowed, pale with fear at that memory. “Roderica denied telling the queen you were captive. But who else could have?” Her eyes blazed with hatred. “But Roderica told Sardira something else. She told him you made me speak about the Ivory Lyre. She said she heard it all. I don’t remember,” Accacia said, staring at him with fury.

“Who told the queen I was captive?”

“I don’t know! If not Roderica, who would? It would take a terrible power on the queen’s part to make the king’s servants obey her. To make them carry her to the stadium. His orders were that she never leave the palace.” She swallowed again and her eyes showed pain. “It would take a terrifying power to do . . . what she did.”

Teb smiled. It was interesting to see something really touch her, frighten and confuse that smug little ego.

“It was the queen who saved you,” she said in a small, lost voice. But her look at him was of hatred.

“The queen didn’t know about the lyre?” he asked, knowing she could not have, not until the spell was broken.

“She didn’t know. That was partly why he kept her locked up . . . away from the places that hid the lyre, away from the tablet that told about it.”

“And where is the tablet?”

“In his chambers, behind a panel in the wall.” Her eyes blazed. “What difference does it make now if I tell? What difference? He has already called me a traitor and told me to leave the palace.”

“So you came to find me with the lyre, to take me captive and deliver me to him, to soothe his fury.”

“Yes. But it doesn’t matter. If I don’t take you to him, he will find you. He will kill you anyway.”

“Where is the lyre now? Where has he hidden it?”

“I don’t know.”

He forced the spell again. “Where is the lyre? You know you will have to tell me.”

She glared back at him, then slowly her face grew docile, her eyes dulled. “The lyre is in the queen’s chambers, where her dead body lies.”

“Why would he take it there?”

“A joke, his cruel joke . . . that he take it to her, now that she could no longer use it. He kept it secret for so many years, but now . . . now he has given it to her.”

He took her hands, twisting her tied wrists so she had to follow him. “You are coming with us to search for it. If you cause a problem I will kill you.”

He pushed her toward the passage. As she passed Gram, her look at the old woman was cruel and puzzling. They went quickly up the passage, then up a narrow stair rising steeply into the heart of the mountain, then a low-roofed passage—not the one he had used to visit the queen. They joined that passage, but there was no sense of the lyre near the queen’s door. Teb approached cautiously with drawn sword, forcing Accacia ahead.

“You will see the queen,” she said, “lying there waiting to be buried.”

“I have seen dead people before.” Still there was no sense of the lyre, no sense of bright magic. He spun Accacia around to face him. “Is it a trick? You will die first if this is a trap.”

She looked at him steadily. “The lyre is there, in her chamber, secured in a locked safe beneath her bed.”

He forced her on, then saw the door was ajar and drew back. Too late. Soldiers surrounded them.

Teb flung Accacia aside, parrying blows, but there were too many, and the power of the un-men pressed at him, weakening him, striking him with sudden confusion. Perhaps they had confused him all along, led him here. It was a short battle and one-sided, two dozen blades and the power of the dark sending him sprawling, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Before him, beside the queen’s bed, watching coldly, stood King Sardira, Captain Leskrank, and General Vurbane. They stared with icy amusement as Teb was led in to them defeated, his woman’s skirts flapping around his ankles.

He looked back at them steadily, devoid of power, wishing mightily for Seastrider—as bear, as wolf— and realized how much he had grown to depend on her. Then, glancing at the bed, he was riven with shock.

There lay the little, thin body of the queen, brutally twisted across the satin as if the pain of her death still gripped her, the jeweled knife still protruding from her chest. The sight of her shocked Teb profoundly, that they had not arranged her in peace with her hands crossed, or even removed the knife or closed her eyes.

The soldiers bound him and Gram. They left Accacia’s hands tied.

She fought in a rage, swearing at the king. “You told me if I brought him here, you told me—”

King Sardira smiled coldly. “Never believe the word of an angry king, my dear Accacia. You will find no forgiveness for what you did.”

They were forced down passages and narrow stairs, beyond the passage to the treasure room, then at last through another door, into a long, rough fissure in the mountain that contained a line of empty cells, the soldiers’ lamplight catching at the heavy bars.

They were locked there, each to a cell, but not adjoining ones. The lamps showed the king’s lined face sharply. Teb stared at the uncertainty that showed for a moment in those dark eyes; then the king’s look went shuttered and cold.