He knew the lyre was lost. He knew that all knowledge of it had been wiped away from the minds of men, from the minds of all bards and dragons. He knew the spell that hid it had broken at this instant, because of his questioning. If one bard or dragon among us seeks it, the memory will come alive.
“Is the lyre here in Dacia?” he asked carefully.
She nodded.
The lyre had power, great power. It had once been known to all Tirror. Knowledge of the dwarf who had carved it, and of the dragon who had given his claws for its making, filled Teb’s mind.
But another knowledge touched him, too, woven into the tale of the lyre. There was one object, a stone tablet, that breached the spell on the lyre. It told the tale of the lyre and its powers. That tablet, too, must be here in Dacia. It was the only way the king—and Accacia—could know about the lyre.
He must find the lyre. The tablet was of no importance now that the spell was broken. But the lyre . . .
The Ivory Lyre of Bayzun could give him and the dragons forces they had not yet touched, to defeat the dark rulers.
Accacia stirred. “I see you have heard of the lyre.”
“I have never heard of it,” he said truthfully. “But its very name sounds magical, and by your look and the way you speak of it, it must have power.”
“It is a small lyre carved from the claws of the grandfather of all singing dragons—if you believe in such creatures.”
“I have heard they are extinct. If they ever existed.”
“I hope they are extinct. They could be very harmful to us. The power of the lyre itself is sufficient for us to keep the dark at bay.” She was becoming more aware once again as his own concentration lagged. He thought of Garit—if he could find Garit this night, what news he would have for him. He brought his force so strong his palms began to sweat.
“Where is the lyre, Accacia?”
“Sardira . . . moves it from place to place,” she said dreamily. “Treasure rooms . . . all over the palace.”
But he knew where it was now, or had been recently. It was that bright magic that had called to him from behind the locked oak door that guarded the upper treasure room. “How did King Sardira come by such a power?” he asked softly.
“It . . . I don’t know how it came here. A warrior brought it, I think. Such things, such dead facts, are of no importance.” She sighed. “The lyre has the power to drive back the dark enough so it cannot conquer Dacia. Power—if King Sardira were to take up arms against Quazelzeg and the dark lords, enough power, perhaps, even to conquer them.”
Teb stared.
“Sardira,” Accacia said softly, “prefers that the lyre stand as talisman only, a wall against the dark’s ultimate power. In this way, Dacia can take advantage of the dark’s power in safety. Dacia can take advantage of both sides, and yet remain free of both.”
Teb studied her, understanding Sardira’s purpose too well. A delicate balance between the perversions Dacia enjoyed in the company of the dark and Dacia’s total enslavement. The dark would not know what caused that power, would only know that some force stood against them.
“If the lyre did not exist, Accacia, and Dacia were enslaved, what would you do then?”
Her eyes were lidded with sleepiness. “I would still have my life as I choose. I would still have the luxuries I want.”
“You would be a . . . friend to the dark?”
“Yes.”
“And the dark would not crush you?”
She smiled. “I please the dark leaders.”
“And the lyre is kept safe,” he said softly, pulling her to him, “within the king’s treasuries. How many treasuries are there?”
“Several. Seven . . . eight.” Her voice was growing very sleepy. “Some very deep . . . deep in the core of the mountain, guarded . . . guarded by the fanged lizards.”
“How would one reach such chambers?”
“Deep passages, a complicated way. . . .” She kissed him lazily and subsided into a dreaminess that he did not, again, try to lift.
He sat a moment thinking of the lyre, then of Garit and the plans they could now make. Then he rose, pulled Accacia up and led her as one would lead a child, out of the garden and through halls lit only by her lantern. He left her in an empty reception room near where he could see the king and the un-men taking mithnon. He hoped he had blocked all memory of her words from her. She would find her way to more exciting company now.
He thought about Nightraider riding the winds alone, searching for Camery. As he went along to his chambers to change into his old leathers, excitement filled him that he might see Camery this night, that maybe Nightraider had already found her. Or maybe she had escaped Ekthuma and found her way to Garit. He would go down into the city, to Garit first, then to the stadium where the cats were held. Before he reached the stables, he found the three dragons waiting for him in the forms of wolves.
They made their way quickly over the route the mounted entourage had taken, skirting clutches of revelers and drunks and cadheads. No one bothered them, most backed away from the wolves, for these were not blinded creatures pulling carts, but fierce and snarling. Teb kept to the darkest shadows so his face would not be remembered.
He found Garit’s cottage, making sure by the position of the tower. The windows were dark, no crack of light. The steps were rickety, the front porch Uttered with rubble. He knocked softly. When no one answered, he went around to the back door and rapped again. There was no crack of light here, either, no sign that anyone was inside. After a few minutes he tried the door, found it locked, returned to the front. That door, too, was bolted.
He tried a shutter and found it securely fastened. He didn’t want to break in. He thought of leaving Garit some message, a few words scrawled on a board with a stick, but he didn’t want it found by someone else. He left at last, flattened with disappointment, the wolves walking close now in sympathy.
At the stadium they could hear a huge commotion. A crowd of men was shouting and slamming gates. Starpounder slipped in through a dark side gate to look, his wolf form hidden in shadow. He returned to say a band of soldiers was unloading several bulls and some guard lizards from carts drawn up inside the arena. There are too many, Tebriel. We will attract too much attention. We must return later, when they have gone.
Yes, Seastrider said. In the small hours when no one is here, we will release the cats, then go to Garit. Now let us be off to the sky. Wolf forms are not comfortable, and this city stinks.
They found a hill above the ruins where they would not be seen. The three began to change, the wolf forms to grow thin, then transparent.
But they did not turn to dragons. They remained wolves, thin as cloud, so the rough grass showed through. It was a long time before Seastrider’s true dragon shape began to waver over the thin wolf form, huge but only mist—as if the change into wolf had taken the last of a strangely waning strength. Teb tried to help her. The other two looked on, shadows of wolves.
Slowly Seastrider grew denser. Her wings showed thinly against the sky. She became almost solid, she tried to lift, she flew clumsily—then she faltered and fell to earth like a crippled bird, becoming only wolf again.
The other two had not changed. Teb felt their effort, but the evil on them was too powerful. They were trapped, shivering, their wolf eyes flashing. But they all kept trying, Teb with every ounce of power in him. At long last, when he thought it was useless, Seastrider began to find her shape again, stronger now until she coiled across the hill like thickening mist, turning whiter, denser, slowly gaining solid form.