They crowded at once to look. Hibben of the twisted hand drew in his breath sharply. But it was only a birthmark, Teb thought. He had always had it. Why were they staring at it? It was a dark mark, no bigger than the ball of his thumb, and looked like a three-clawed animal foot.
Sivich’s fingers were hard as steel. “This will trap a dragon. With bait like this we’ll have us a dragon easy as trapping fox.”
The men sighed and muttered. Some pushed closer to Teb, leaning over him to stare, pawing at his arm, their strong breath making him feel ill.
“How can that catch a dragon? It’s only a little mark. . . .”
“What does it mean? How can . . . ?”
But others among them nodded knowingly. “Ay, that will trap a dragon—trap the singing dragon. . . .” They stared at Teb strangely.
When at last Sivich was done with Teb, he shoved him back toward the corner. Teb went quickly, sick inside himself with something unnameable.
He crouched against the stone wall, listening as Sivich described how the snare would be built, how Teb would be bound in the center of it as the rabbit is bound in the fox snare. And, Teb thought, with the same result, a bloody, painful death, the dragon’s great hulk hovering over him as it tore his flesh, just as the fox tears at the rabbit.
For even a singing dragon—if in truth it was such—had to eat. No one ever said that singing dragons were different in that way from common dragons. Surely the fables about their skills as oracles were only that, fables born of their beauty and size, and of the wonder of their iridescent color. Some folks thought the dragon was a sign of man’s freedom. That didn’t, in Teb’s mind, make it less likely to behave like other dragons when it was hungry.
Or was it something other than hunger that Sivich felt would draw the dragon to him? What was the mark on his arm? Why was it important? Yet common sense told him that the wondrous tales of the singing dragons were only myth; and certainly there was nothing magical in a small brown birthmark.
Teb was not a king’s son for nothing. Wonder and myth were one thing, but fact remained separate and apart. He had spent many hours in the hall listening as his father threaded a keen path between gossip and truth, in appraising the dark raiders and preparing his men for battle. But even then, his father had at last been wrong, had been misled by falsehood that looked like truth. He had believed in Sivich’s loyalty, when Sivich was really a clever pawn of the dark. He had died for his misjudgment.
Why did Sivich want the dragon? What could he possibly do with it? Keep it in the trap forever? Poke it and torment it? But you couldn’t keep a dragon captive, not that dragon. Why would he want to?
Because the dragon was a symbol of freedom? Must they destroy every such symbol, the dark raiders and their pawns who had helped enslave half the northern lands? Must they destroy everything loved by free men?
Yes, Teb supposed. If the dark raiders could enslave the dragon, they would show all of Tirror they held the last symbol of freedom in chains. Their power would be invincible then. No one would defy them then.
Teb went cold as a harsh voice at the back shouted, “A princess would be better bait. What about the girl—hasn’t she the mark?”
“The girl has no such mark,” Sivich said irritably. “Besides, I keep her for breeding.”
“No one breeds a girl of fourteen,” said Hibben of the twisted hand. “They die in childbed all the time, bred young.”
Sivich turned a look of cold fury on the soldier. “Do you think I’m stupid? The girl will be kept to breed when she can bear me the young I want, as many young as it will take to capture every singing dragon that ever touches Tirror’s skies. She will breed male babies with the mark.”
Hibben grunted, then was silent.
Teb watched Sivich. What was the meaning of the mark? For it was the mark, surely, that had kept Sivich from killing him as he had killed his father. He felt panic for Camery, and knew she must get away. Both of them must. But how? How could Camery escape from a tower with winged jackals circling it? The guards never let her come down.
Sivich was talking about the snare again, how many trees would be felled, how much chain was needed. Teb listened, sick to despair at his helplessness. Would old Desma help him? But she was too afraid. The only other servant he trusted was Garit, and he had been sent to the coast to gather and train fresh horses, and had taken young Lervey with him. There was no one. The hall felt icy. He crouched, shivering, and listened to the drunken talk. It was nearly dawn when at last the hall lay empty. A heavy rain started, splattering in through the barred window. Teb pressed exhausted against the stone, shivering and lost, and fell into a sick uneasy sleep.
Chapter 3
“Get the boy up! Get him out here! Do you think we have all day!” Sivich’s voice thundered up from the courtyard and jerked Teb from sleep. He lay struggling between consciousness and dream, and realized he had been hearing shouts and the sounds of restive horses for some time, pounding in and out of his dreams. He tried to escape back into sleep, but now the image of the dragon filled his head suddenly, the image of himself in the dragon’s gaping jaws. He had gone to sleep thinking of that, and didn’t know how to stop thinking it.
He reached for a blanket that wasn’t there, then realized he was still in the hall. He had slept in the corner. Someone had put the ankle chain on him, chained him to a ring in the wall. The hall smelled of wet ash, and he remembered it had rained. Rain always came down the chimney. The bars of the window were wet, and water streaked the wall and puddled on the floor. Beyond the bars, the sky was dull and heavy.
The jackals were stirring and snuffling.
A door banged suddenly, and Teb watched Blaggen come across from the scullery. He could smell eggs cooking, and ham, and could hear the din of men eating in the common room.
Blaggen pushed the jackals aside and knelt stiffly to remove Teb’s chain. There was a stain of egg on his tunic, and his hair was uncombed. He dropped the chain into his pocket and stood up, took a slab of dry bread and cheese from his pocket, and handed them to Teb.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Put it in your pocket, then. Could be your last meal.”
Teb wadded the food in his fist and shoved it in his pocket.
Blaggen pushed him across the shadowed, echoing hall and down the steps to the courtyard, then out among the milling horses and warriors. The two jackals kept so close now that he could hardly move. When they began to sniff his pocket for the bread and cheese, slavering and growling, Teb turned his back, slipped the food out, and gulped it. He hoped it would stay down. He worked his way to the water trough, falling over the jackals, stumbling between horses and men.
He drank. The water tasted like metal. He turned away, feeling awful, pushing between two big war-horses and wondering if he was going to throw up. Then when he looked above him toward the tower, Camery was there at the window.
She stood very still, looking down at him. Her face was so white, as if the sun of Tirror never reached her; yet watery sun caught her now from low in the east, tangled in her pale hair. She was hugging herself as if she were cold. They looked at each other across that impossible distance. They could not speak. Neither could know what the other was thinking. Neither could know the fate of the other. Camery did not know, at the moment, that they would likely never see each other again. She would guess it when he rode away. And he thought, as he watched her, I won’t die! I won’t!
But their father had died. Their mother had died—neither had wanted to die or had gone to death willingly.