The Dragonbards

Chapter 26

Within the Doors, time and distance are as nothing. One can be as close as a breath and as far away as forever. I pray to the Graven Light to help us. I think it is the only power that can.

*

Quazelzeg’s chambers in the palace at Sharden were crusted with jewels stolen from a thousand worlds, his furniture covered with gold leaf and inlaid with platinum, his carpets woven of rare silks and human hair. In the small hours before dawn, he stood among the rich furnishings locked in vision.

He watched Tebriel and his dragon wing north toward the Castle of Doors, and he smiled. The bard had fought a ridiculously heroic battle within himself— and was caught as surely as a fox is caught in a trap.

Young Tebriel wanted to help his mother. How very touching. Oh, yes, the link between mother and son was strong. But Tebriel’s midnight journey into Sharden and his obedience to the dark powers had weakened both of them. Afterward, it had been easy to drive Meriden back when she appeared to him again. She had retreated quickly. Yes, young Tebriel had strengthened the dark’s powers considerably.

Quazelzeg was satisfied that now Meriden no longer had the power to pull him through into other worlds. Now he would enter only as he chose. Very soon, she would no longer hold any barrier against the hordes he would call into Tirror.

It was not easy to bring the dark creatures through; it had not been easy to bring the vamvipers. It took great concentration to master them and draw them from endless worlds. With Meriden and her interference, it was even more difficult.

But she would not hold them back much longer. Through Tebriel, a rent had been torn in the power she had laid down. Soon a wraith or incubus would slip through, and her power would be further weakened. One barrier down, and the dark creatures would break all barriers and swarm into the city. Then Tirror would be his completely. Not even the lyre could fight such an army.

Meantime, managed skillfully, mother and son could be played against each other.

It was fortunate that last night Tebriel had used the lyre. Now it would take some time for the lyre to replenish its magic.

Meriden’s words echoed unpleasantly. The Ivory Lyre . . . will defeat you. The spirit of Bayzun will defeat you. . . .

But that would not happen now. The lyre was silent. And very soon the lyre would belong to him, would belong to the world of the dark.

*

Teb and Seastrider flew through a dawn as gray and desolate as winter. They recalled the vision of the Castle of Doors and scanned the deep mountain ravines and tall peaks, which became wilder as they moved north. But not until late afternoon did they see the familiar tangle of shifting domes and ridges crowded around the center. Seastrider dropped low to wing down shadowed chasms, seeking a way in.

They followed winding ravines and twisting ridges. Flying back and forth, they circled towers, searching, until they nearly lost hope of finding a way in. But suddenly, as they soared through a shaft of bright sun, Seastrider swerved through a black slit between mountains.

Blackness swallowed them; they spun, sucked down.

Valleys dropped below them miles deep, only to turn into peaks thrusting miles high. Caves and tunnels twisted into uncounted rooms that vanished, to be replaced by others. Seas became deserts; the sky darkened into night and suddenly burned with day again. Winds whipped at them and lifted and dropped them, and were gone. As the world around them shifted, Teb’s nerve failed. How could they find Meriden here?

How could any invasion of dark creatures be discovered, and held back, in this nightmare?

As flotillas of boats pushed across the strait toward Sharden’s city, the eight dragons, too, crossed the last stretch of sea. They passed over palace and city and dropped down among giant boulders on the rocky hill. They knew that Teb and Seastrider had been there on the hill and that they had gone. Kiri was cold with terror for Teb, close to panic, and held steady only by the strength of the others. They watched from among the boulders as the armies of light pulled their boats onto the shore and gathered across Sharden’s hills. There were dark troops camped around the palace. The power of the dark reached out and kindled terror in the rebels and animals, but so powerful was the rebels’ commitment that no one thought to turn back. Scattered campfires sprang up as folk made hasty meals.

*

Seastrider flew on through streaming light and through blackness, searching the stone twistings and echoing spaces. Neither she nor Teb knew how they would find Meriden, but they shouted her name. Their cries were swallowed by the vast spaces. Was there anything to hear them? Seastrider leaped chasms and sped down twisting tunnels between shifting walls that opened suddenly into emptiness or closed before them in barriers of stone.

As they fled through endless worlds, they knew that the armies of light had attacked Quazelzeg’s palace, flanked by the diving dragons. They saw the soldiers of the unliving crouched in masses along the palace wall. As time shifted, the cries of the battle echoed down otherworld chambers. Winter and summer met them and were lost; worlds fell away and other worlds loomed; and visions of the battle followed them.

How long they forged ahead, they couldn’t guess. They knew only that Tirror was caught in a terrible and decisive war, and that still they had no clue how to stop it—how to drive back the dark, how to prevent more dark creatures from pouring through, how to find Meriden. Teb’s mind was nearly drowned in confusion, when he began to hear Meriden’s voice echoing down vast distances. . . .

Tebriel . . .

Seastrider swerved toward it.

Tebriel . . .

They swerved again and dove through tunneled chambers.

The grave, Tebriel—find the grave of Bayzun. Find the cave where Bayzun lies in death. . . .

They twisted and sped like hounds, following Meriden’s echoing shout.

Bayzun’s cave . . .

Suddenly Seastrider banked and slipped across the wind into a gigantic well of air circled by steep mountain walls.

The chasm was so deep they could not see the bottom, only mist. A far, small hole of sky shone above them. The well was washed by winds that lifted and played like churning waters. In the side of a mountain yawned a cave. Something white gleamed deep inside. Seastrider banked to it.

Inside the cave loomed the white skeleton of the great dragon, sire of all Tirror’s dragons. The arch of his white ribs melted away into darkness, supporting the thick white spine, then letting it down to snake its twisting way alone. The heavy white head faced them, its black empty eye sockets seeming filled with power. Seastrider snorted with a wild awe, planted her feet on the thin ledge, and folded her wings in a gesture of deference. Teb slid down and approached the skeleton. Neither his gaze nor Seastrider’s left the dark shadows of those hollow eyes.

This was why they had come.

Teb slipped the lyre from inside his tunic.

As if in answer to his gesture, he heard Meriden cry, Yes, give the lyre to Bayzun.

This was why she had led him here.

Bayzun’s great feet stood solidly, one with the claws torn away. From these had the lyre been carved. Teb knelt. He knew with a calm certainty that if the lyre was returned to the bones of Bayzun, the lyre’s power would become immense.

Yes, give him the lyre, Tebriel.

But as he reached to place the lyre before Bayzun, Seastrider swung her head and pushed him aside. “Wait.”

He glared at her, startled.

Meriden’s voice was insistent. Give Bayzun the lyre, Teb. There is little time—our soldiers are losing. Listen to your bard knowledge. Bayzun is the grandfather of all dragons. If you lay the lyre at Bayzun’s feet, the power will come.

“Is that bard knowledge, Tebriel?” Seastrider said. “Is that Meriden’s voice?”

He stared at her. “Of course!”

But now Meriden shouted, Do not part with it! Do not give it!

Teb stood up, confused, and stared around him, clutching the lyre.

Make the Ivory Lyre speak, Tebriel. But do not give it. Bring Bayzun’s power alive with its song.

Which was Meriden?

Which was the dark?

One voice was false—but how clearly it imitated hers.

Yet surely he had only to make one simple gesture, had only to lay the lyre at Bayzun’s feet, and he could resurrect the lyre’s power. There was no evil in Bayzun, only the power of the light.

Do not let the lyre from your hand! the voice cried.

He looked at Seastrider, sick with uncertainty.

Lay the lyre at the feet of Bayzun, Tebriel. Do not play it now, in this place. Give the lyre to Bayzun. . . .

Surely that was Meriden.

Make the lyre speak, Teb, do not give it. Sing Bayzun alive, sing his power alive.

The voices dueling inside his head dizzied him. He plucked one string so hard the little lyre shook. . . .

But it was silent.

He stared at it, shocked into choking dismay. He had used its strength too recently, to save himself in the drug dens of Sharden.

They needed the lyre now, more than Tirror had ever needed it. Shame held him. Terror held him.

You must renew its strength, Tebriel—at the feet of Bayzun.

Yes. Yes. That was Meriden’s voice.