The Ivory Lyre

Chapter 11

Teb burned to get to Garit. The return ride up to the palace seemed to take forever. He thought of pretending Seastrider was lame or sick and falling back, riding back alone. But there were too many eyes to see him. If not the soldiers, then those within the city itself. Seastrider began to sweat lightly. Accacia swatted at flies buzzing in the heat and prattled endlessly. When they reached the stable at last, Accacia insisted on waiting for Teb while he groomed Seastrider, so she could walk with him to the late lunch she had planned. She stood well out of the way as he rubbed the white mare down.

“I should think you would leave such work to the grooms.”

He ignored her, took his time with the grooming ritual, hot towels, rubdown, brushing, all of it, as he tried to invent a way to escape her without causing suspicion, and get down into the city.

You had best wait, Tebriel. She watches you too closely.

I must see Garit. It’s why we came here—partly why.

We will go tonight, wait until tonight.

He worked for some time, slowly, making Accacia wait. Then suddenly Seastrider began to fidget and paw.

What’s the matter with you?

She turned her head to stare at him. Can’t you sense it? Someone—a speaking animal, Tebriel. Nearby.

Well, I suppose so. In the city—

No. Her ears twitched eagerly. Here, in the palace itself.

Stop twitching your ears; Accacia is staring. What animal? Why would a speaking animal come to the palace?

I don’t . . . A fox, Tebriel! Yes. A kit fox.

Can you tell where? Can you tell what it’s doing?

No. Only . . . She stood staring into emptiness for a moment. Only that it comes to . . . to see a friend, I think. Seastrider snorted and shook her mane. It comes secretly, Tebriel. By a secret way.

“Are you nearly finished?” Accacia said. “They will have let the lunch get cold. Or burnt.”

He went at last, following Accacia, his mind teeming with curiosity about the fox, and still filled with a pounding eagerness to find Garit. On top of these thoughts remained a stubborn picture of Kiri turned back at him, her dark eyes filled with knowing.

*

The fox sat before the queen waiting for her to wake, giving little panting huffs to make her stir. It was noontime, but this room was always filled with thick night. The lamp burned softly, sending a glow across his silver-white coat. His tail was bright white, bushy, and there was a dark gray streak across one shoulder where a knife wound had healed. His eyes were dark and intelligent, his alert ears thrust forward. He watched the queen sleeping with her mouth open, said, “Huff,” again irritably, then in exasperation he gave one muffled, sharp bark, glancing uneasily at the locked door. The queen opened her pale eyes, staring at him blankly, then smiled, so all her wrinkles deepened. She sat up in bed and tried to straighten the covers so he would have a warm place to sit.

He jumped up when she beckoned, pawed at the tangle of blanket she had arranged for him, then sat very straight and regally, regarding her with half amusement and half irritation. He could never be truly angry with her, but there were times she tried his patience.

“Did you tell someone about me?” he asked. “Did you tell Roderica? There was a trap in the passage tonight.”

“Oh . . .” Her hand flew to her mouth. “What kind of trap? Not . . .”

“No, not a killer trap. A box trap—but just as confining, Queen Stephana. Who . . . ?”

“I told no one. You know I wouldn’t. Oh, that terrible girl, she has been spying on us! Wait until I catch her, I will flail her.”

“With a whip?” he asked, hiding a smile.

“With words, of course. It’s all I have. Oh, please . . . you weren’t hurt?”

“Of course not. I sprang it easily, then fixed it so she can’t use it again. Of course, she will bring others.”

“Not when I’m through with her.” The queen looked completely undone. The fox thought it was the first time he had ever seen her truly concerned about something. He was touched and flattered. He settled down more comfortably on the nest of blankets, prepared again to try to change the queen’s stubborn mind.

He was Hexet, originally of the island of Kipa in the Benaynne Archipelago. He had escaped the island during Quazelzeg’s early raids. Hundreds of animals, and some humans with them, had swum the straits to Bukla and Edain and Dacia as Quazelzeg’s shipborne soldiers sacked the islands.

Some folk had gone back, and a group of animals and men had retaken a few of the islands. But it was a never-ending battle to keep the dark raiders out, successful mainly because Quazelzeg’s forces were now more urgently occupied on larger lands. The small islands of the archipelago had little to offer. They had never been heavily populated. Hexet, with a handful of others, had come to settle on the rocky, barren southerly tip of Dacia, hoping to help the resistance movements that were growing among the animals. He had once been a leader of many foxes and was known as Hexet the Thief. His small band had been constantly at work for some five months, stealing food stores from the palace and ferrying them, with the help of a few otters, around the tip of Dacia to the sanctuary of Gardel-Cloor, for emergency supplies. War would come, rebellion would come, but this war would not be lost through siege and starvation. It was one of the otters who had told Hexet about the captive queen. Curious, Hexet had found a way in to her. He had been coming ever since. He sat up now, studying her old, wrinkled face, seeing the defiance there. She knew very well what he meant to say. He sat as straight and tall as he could manage and fixed her with a look of authority.

She stared back at him, her own demeanor powerful in spite of her ragged, unkempt condition, in spite of her illness and weakness. A reminder of her true nature looked out for that instant, queenly and austere. “Can we not just talk? Can you not simply tell me tales of the fox nation? Do we have to go through this argument every time?”

“We would not have to argue at all if you would be reasonable.”

“Or if you would be civil and remember your manners. One does not defy a queen.”

“I defy you,” he said softly, his dark eyes gleaming and his sharp teeth showing in a quick snarl. “We must join together, all of us must, if we are to save Tirror.”

“I can save nothing. I am a sick, helpless old woman and I want only to be left alone.”

“You could save more than you know. If you would try. If you cared.”

“I can do nothing. I am alone; those skills are dead and would be of no use anyway without— No one can fight alone.”

“You are not alone. The hostages from Merviden have risen, Queen Stephana. They have retaken two cities. The underground forces move strongly in the nations of the Nasden Confederacy. You could help them if you cared. You could help Dacia. You still have power; you know you do. Though it may not be as strong as it once was.

“My brothers work with the rebels, Queen Stephana. The foxes, the otters and wolves, and the great cats. Many of us have died. You could help us. You could save many.” He knew her weakness. He moved forward over the tangle of blankets, put aside his dignity, and lay down with his head in her lap. As she stroked his lush silvery coat, her face softened. She touched the soft white fur under his chin with one finger.

“They have died,” he said. “Many foxes have died slowly, in pain, the same as human children have died.”

He stayed a long time, letting her stroke him, telling her of atrocities to humans and animals—though it was the pain of the animals that touched her. She had long ago put away from herself much empathy for humankind—as if the world of humans as she knew it, the king perhaps, had betrayed her beyond redeeming. He left in a flash when he heard Roderica’s key in the door, then waited far down the passage in darkness.

Roderica discovered the trap and shouted out with fury before she remembered herself and withdrew into a protective calm. She didn’t care. It didn’t make any difference; she didn’t want to fuss around with a dirty fox, anyway. She listened to the queen’s scolding without emotion, agreed with her that she had done a bad thing, said she wouldn’t do it again. Afterward she went on up to the small dining chamber feeling tired and dull. Accacia’s entourage had returned. Accacia was waiting for her, tapping her foot. Prince Tebmund and Prince Abisha stood talking together in a corner. Roderica had passed the newly arrived captains from the north as they entered the larger dining hall to take private lunch with the king.

Roderica suffered through lunch in silence, hating foxes, hating that fox who so charmed the queen and who had caused her scolding. When the tedious meal was finished, she watched Accacia lead Prince Tebmund off on a tour of the palace—whether to keep him out of the way of the visiting army, or because Accacia was still intent on romance, Roderica didn’t know or care.

“We will go up to the high wall first,” Accacia said softly. Her satin dress caught the light of the banked candles as they left the small dining chamber. “It’s cool there with the sea wind, for it’s nearly on top of the palace.” She ushered him into a dark passage. He followed her swinging light uneasily, wishing he had found a satisfactory way of evading her after lunch. But Seastrider was right; it was best to wait until nighttime to go to Garit. Accacia prattled on, thrusting her lamp into open galleries to pick out black spaces and towering furniture, telling him which were meeting rooms, which the chambers of the palace guards and retinue, all seemingly open for inspection. She made wry comments about the palace residents, and glided so close to him that he felt quite warm and uncomfortable. Her voice was too insinuating and personal. Her relationship with Prince Abisha puzzled him. They were to be wed, but she flirted with everyone. Maybe Abisha didn’t have the courage to alter her ways.

The looks between Accacia and the king left more questions unanswered.

The black passages opened occasionally in a tall, narrow window shockingly bright with sun. Each one showed them to be higher up the mountain into which the palace was carved. Suddenly at a turn in the passage Teb felt a sharp sense of evil. It lingered for some time, perhaps an aura of evil from the dark leaders dining in the hall below. Then, as they approached an ironclad door, a feeling so powerful struck him that he stopped, staring at the crossed iron strips that bound the oak, his hands trembling. A feeling of powerful magic, of brightness, of infinite goodness.

He felt his pulse pounding; he wanted to see inside. He must find the source of this power.

“The king’s treasure rooms,” Accacia said casually, though she was looking at him with curiosity. “I do not have a key, Prince Tebmund. Are you so interested in Sardira’s treasure as to stand staring, your face gone white?”

“It . . . is the door,” he lied. “The pattern of crossed strapping on the door reminded me of something, another door. It stirred unhappy memories, of someone who died,” he said, pleased with his inventiveness. He took her hand. “Come, let’s find the top of this grand maze, so we can have a real view of the city.”

The sense of goodness followed him strongly as they moved up the black stone passages to a flight of narrow steps. At the top of these, they faced a tall arch filled with sky. Beyond was an open walkway, where they stood looking down upon the city, the wind tugging at them.

She moved close to him. “The view pleases you, Prince Tebmund?”

“It is magnificent.” But his mind was on the treasure room.

She touched his cheek. He ignored her, studying the city laid out below, seeing it clearly now in daylight where, from the sky, it had been too dark. He could see the route they had taken that morning. He tried to see the ruined tower near Garit’s cottage. Accacia pressed her shoulder against him, clasping her arms around herself in the chill wind.

“How long have you lived in the palace?” he asked absently, wishing she would keep her distance.

“Always. Didn’t I tell you that? My father was a captain to the king. He died in battle, but my uncle was horsemaster, so, of course, I stayed. Then—” She brushed a fleck of dust from his sleeve and looked up at him openly.

“I was Sardira’s mistress, before his dying wife made such a fuss. I’ve never understood that. The king moved me to the west tower and promised me to Abisha. He promised her he would not take another queen, though she is bedridden and useless.” Accacia sighed. “What power she has over him, to make him adhere to such a promise, I cannot really say. Why should she be so selfish? She has lived past her time. She talks of dying but she does not intend to do it.”

Teb turned away, shocked and angry at her rudeness. Maybe she had had more wine at the noon meal than he noticed. A flock of small brown birds came tumbling in the wind, nearly into their faces. Teb swallowed his anger and smiled down at her. If she was feeling her wine, he would not waste a good opportunity. Already her guide to the location of various guards’ quarters had been worthwhile and could prove useful. Information about the queen might be very useful indeed.

“The old queen must be a tyrant,” he said lightly.

“She’s a bitter old woman who weaves her days around palace gossip, and is a burden to the king.”

“And is the crippling she suffers a painful one?”

“Oh, yes,” Accacia said casually. “She should have been dead long ago.”

“She makes life difficult for you?”

“Not particularly. I make my own life.” She gave him a slow, warming look and drew her hand softly down his cheek.

He took her wrists gently and held them. “I would not distress Prince Abisha by making light with his betrothed,” he said coolly.

“It would be difficult to distress Abisha. He cares nothing for me.” At his surprised look, she smiled. “Most royal marriages are made for convenience, Prince Tebmund. Is it not so in your country?”

“My parents married for love. Perhaps I am old-fashioned in thinking that even a royal marriage should be so.”

“Unrealistic would describe your view more exactly.” She turned away and started along the narrow stone balcony that wrapped itself around the juttings of the mountain, lost to view ahead of them. They walked slowly, the lamp’s flame faded to a transparent ghost in the sunlight. Teb felt Accacia’s stubborn desire for him as strong as the eastern wind that pushed up from the sea. Deliberately he turned his mind from her. They did not speak again until they began to descend, when she took his hand.

“The leaders from Aquervell will be at the supper table tonight, Prince Tebmund.”

“Supper should be an elegant affair.” He assumed all the private discussion would have been finished by suppertime. He would give a lot to hear those conversations. “Are the Aquervell captains frequent visitors to Dacia?”

“They come fairly often. They enjoy the . . . pleasures of the city.”

Pleasures, he thought with disgust. He was sure the un-men enjoyed them. Their presence here would make things difficult. He hoped he and the dragons had enough power to shield themselves from discovery. The dark would come down with everything it had if it discovered the truth.

Maybe he should send the dragons away at once, go by himself into the city to Garit, disguise himself and work with the resistance from there.

Yet if the unliving did sense him and follow him, he would lead them straight to Garit. He had better face the dark leaders head-on. Do it boldly, and at once.

What he meant to do was bold, and dangerous. The dark would be closer to the dragons than it had ever been.

He knew from Seastrider how strong the shape-shifting power had grown. The dragons had reluctantly agreed to suffer the indignity of being touched and ridden by the unliving, if they must. He knew also that with increased shape-shifting power, danger increased: The shape-shifter might not be able to return to his true form. The very magic that held the shape steady even in the face of dark forces could well freeze the dragons into their alien shapes permanently.

Yet if he did not offer the use of the horses to the dark leaders, they would demand it. It was better to offer and keep the upper hand. This experience would not come easily for the dragons, would be painful and unnerving for them.

“How long will the leaders from the north be staying?” he asked, watching her. “Perhaps they would like to try my horses . . . learn their special fighting skills.”

“I think the king mentioned it to them. I suppose there would be buyers among them.”

They descended the south parapet with Accacia walking close, her honeyed scent heavy around him. He left her at the north tower stair, pleased with the bits of information he had gleaned, annoyed he had not gotten more. He went quickly toward the stables with a sudden sense of unease, a sudden turmoil of fury that was not his own.

He found the four horses sweating in their open stalls, their retreat blocked by a ring of yellow-uniformed soldiers. A captain of the dark was trying to put a halter on Starpounder. Teb heard the black stallion scream, found him rearing and striking at the heavy-shouldered captain, his fury so great Teb could already see a faint dragon-image ready to surface. He raised his hand and shouted. Starpounder paused rearing, came down to strike his front hooves inches from the captain’s head, his teeth bared, his eyes burning with a wildness that no true horse could match.

The captain did not step back. His face was frozen into a sallow mask of contempt.