He could not see land in any direction and could not imagine how far from Auric he might be. The sea heaved and rolled in a different way out here so far from land, its flowing surface broken only by the cluster of emerging tile rooftops and stone walls, ragged and crusted with barnacles, that thrust up out of the water. He knew he was seeing just the highest towers and tallest buildings of the drowned city. The exposed windows of the topmost rooms had lost their shutters, and looked hollow and forlorn. The walls below the surface went all wavy with the movement of the sea. The water all around the sunken city was lighter, greener, marking the shallowness of this place. It must have been a mountaintop city. The sea turned dark a way off, as the shelf dropped into the awesome depths, as Charkky called the deepest sea.
Which way was Auric? The sun sat so perfectly overhead that he had no idea of direction. Later, when the sun dropped, he would know. He could jump then, and swim for it. If he rested in the water, took his time, he could swim for hours.
If nothing bothered him. When night came he would follow the stars of the nine sisters, and Mimmilette, which Thakkur called the one-legged cub, and the pale smear of Casscassonne, Tirror’s false moon.
He leaned down to stare at the outside of the wall, then began to pry off barnacles and stuff the tough shellfish into his mouth. He hung there eating until he began to feel sick, then righted himself and sat astraddle again. The outside of the wall was rougher and would be easy to climb down. He was squinting around at the horizon, trying to see a smudge of land, when a stirring below made him turn back to stare down inside the tower. The hydrus was slipping through into it, huddling its three heads down to clear the space, then churning and flapping in the water as if it sought his drowned body. Then it stilled and stared up at him with all three faces. And it was now at last that the hydrus spoke to him, filling him with fear and disgust. One head spoke, and then another, echoing back and forth, the voices harsh and resonant and pounding in his mind, pounding all through him so he went weak and sweating. And it was then he knew deep inside himself that he could not escape. That it would have him, that if he climbed outward into the sea it would be out there at him in seconds, that somehow it would have him down from the tower. Every word it spoke increased his fear, though afterward he could not remember those words, only knew their meaning. It would have his mind; it would own him. The creature’s mind pulled at him so he felt he was falling down into the dark circle of the sea beside it. . . .
He did not fall. His mind went dizzy and empty, and he lay unconscious along the top of the wall unaware of anything, unaware of the hydrus that tried to command him. He was aware only of a world within, of songs exploding to show scenes of battle, ballads intricate and vivid with the seething life of Tirror.
The song gave him ships headed through heaving seas for a forested coast; it cried out in cadences that made men and horses leap into the sea and swim through surf to drive back defending armies; the song showed the land fallen waste, the crops and towns burned. It showed new cities rising slowly amid fear and starvation as the conquerors worked their slaves.
Then he saw children gathered, singing the same song he heard, and he saw the bard who led them, standing tall between the feet of a pearl-white dragon who sang with him; he heard her song so clearly he started. And she made the songs come to life more clearly than he ever had. He could hear the shouts, and smell the horses and the blood, smell the sweat of the soldiers and hear their cries. The dragon made it more real than ever he could have done. And he knew her—for it was himself there standing between her claws. He was certain all at once what his sense of power meant, and knew why he longed for the dragon: He knew at last with thundering clarity what he was born to do. The word “dragonbard” flared in his mind, and all the songs he knew glowed bright and waiting, meant to be told, meant to be sung, coupled with the voice of the dragon. It was bard and dragon together who made the songs live, made them real in the listener’s mind as if he were truly there hearing the shouting and feeling the pain and joy. She was a time-creature, taking the listener back, making him live that time so he knew it as a part of himself. Dragon and bard together, the making of song, the making of a magical reliving, the continued rebirth of life, and of hope.
But then the brightness faded and his songs began to darken and to change, and he could not prevent the changing. Now he saw himself forcing the will of the dragon, making it sing new, dark words. And in the darkness, he knew that dragons had no right to make songs, that only he could make them, painted in darkness, and that the dragon must be made to follow him. Oh, yes, she would follow. The colors of his songs were dark and fine, and a great crowd gathered to hear him and to believe him. He felt his own power rising, growing, saw the throngs that mobbed around him, yearning for his words. Yes, this was the way, the way of the dark, the way the hydrus showed him, yes. This was what he would do with his life—bring the dragon to him and train her to sing as he wished, as the dark wished, for he was the master, not she. His vision was steeped in shadows and black mists that matched the voice in his mind, strong and soothing and shaping his need, pushing back the flare of conscience that prickled him.
He lay, at last, spent, spread-eagled along the wall. The circle of sea at the bottom of the stone tower was empty now. Above him the sky was dark but cloud-driven, the sun long since gone and the sea wind chilled. He lay there for hours, listening, seeing, changing inside himself. He thought of the hydrus now with warmth and knew it had been right to bring him here, knew it was the wisest of creatures, knew it would care for him.
He sat up, ignoring thirst. He ate some barnacles, sucking their meager juice. He must bring the dragon here, the small dragon, the one called Seastrider, yes, and together they would make their songs here. He would train her here under the knowing guidance of the hydrus, he would train her to the true way. Dark songs, yes, compelling songs to lead in righteousness the hordes that must be led. . . .
At last he slept, flung across the wall.
Chapter 18
How long the hydrus kept Teb he had no idea. Time swam in dark patches of dream, and in between he drank from the collected dew in the niches, and ate barnacles, and slept, or thought he did these things. He was sure of nothing but the thoughts of the hydrus guiding him as he huddled atop the stone wall, chill at night and burning in the daytime, calling and calling to the dragon, demanding that she come to him.