“Summer is Tebriel’s sister, Kiri. His sister—”
She could hardly attend to Garit. “But . . . Summer comes from Zinsan.”
“No. That is only the story we used to protect her. Summer is Tebriel’s sister. Her name is Camery. I brought her away from imprisonment in the tower of Auric when she was fourteen. But you—Kiri, are you all right?”
“He is Tebriel. He is a dragonbard. It was he who broke the spell of the lyre, not me. It is he in the stadium, he who made the vision of bars and chains . . . asking for help—”
They were interrupted by a soft brushing against the door. Garit peered out through a crack, then pulled the door open. The great cat pushed in, the big-boned tom with the black-brown coat, and eyes like yellow moons.
“Xemmos!” Garit said. “What— You all should be hidden in Gardel-Cloor. The stadium games . . .”
“That is why I have come. Word came by way of an escaping wolf. Prince Tebmund of Thedria has been taken prisoner, along with his great bear. He is chained in a cage at the stadium and the bear locked into a cage next to him.”
There was no more talk; Garit left at once for the stadium, pulling on a loose leather coat to hide his short crossbow and sword. Xemmos leaped away to return to Gardel-Cloor, to fetch Summer. Kiri rose and dressed in a leather tunic that would cover the bandages and cover a short sword. Perhaps it would also hide the fact that she walked bent over, from the pain. War would begin today, she felt certain of it. Their forces, no matter how unready, could not allow the murder of a dragonbard in the stadium games.
She went as quickly as she could, gritting her teeth against the pain, through streets now nearly deserted. As she neared the stadium, the noise was deafening, for nearly the entire city crowded to get in. She hated the ugliness of this and felt her stomach quease with sickness.
She had served as page in the king’s plush private box—at Accacia’s request—often enough to have had her fill of the screaming and blood. Nothing ever died quickly; all was drawn out so the dark leaders, always present, could take ultimate pleasure in the pain and terror. She had stood beside the purple satin drapings that lined the king’s box, seeing Accacia’s laughing face, wondering how her cousin could bear it.
She had always wanted to find gentleness in Accacia, and kindness, but she never had. She shouldered through the outer crowds, showed herself to a guard who was one of their own, and slipped through the little gate ahead of everyone else. Catcalls and jeers followed her for her special privilege, but likely they only thought she was a prostitute currying the guard’s favor. Her cheeks burned at that thought. Ahead, beyond the milling, shouting crowd, she could see the tops of the barred cages.
Chapter 16
The fox abandoned subtlety and manners, and gave the sleeping queen a sharp poke. “Wake up! It’s Hexet!”
The queen stirred, brushing at her thin, tangled white hair, looked up over the mass of blankets, and scowled at him. “Go away. Don’t poke me. Where are your manners? Come back when you can speak softly, the way I like.”
Gently, he laid a paw on her cheek and looked deep into her pale eyes. He would like to nip her and rout her out of that bed. “Wake up properly. It’s urgent— something vital and urgent.”
She sat up in a storm of blankets and stared at him. “I don’t like urgent. Or vital.” But she put out her thin old hand to him and stroked his back. “What is it? What is this all about? I’ve never seen you so—”
“Agitated,” he supplied. “I am agitated and angry, and you must get up out of that bed at once.”
“Are you telling me what I must do? I am a queen. You are only—”
“A dignitary in my own nation,” he said, “and equally as important as you. And far more useful to the world, considering our respective talents.”
“What does that mean? You are making double-talk.”
“I am only speaking the truth.” He settled down into the pile of covers, nuzzled her cheek gently, then placed a soft paw against her thin lips. “Now listen. I will tell you something, and I don’t want interruptions. It must be told, Queen Stephana. And you must listen.” He removed his paw and sat looking at her.
She started to tell him there was nothing she must do, then changed her mind and settled back against the headboard, sighing, pulling the blankets around her.
He bobbed his chin with satisfaction. “It is about Prince Tebmund. You told me he had visited with you.”
Her face went closed with apprehension. She searched his face, then nodded reluctantly.
“Did you like him? Did you feel kinship with him?”
Her eyes blazed, as if he had spoken of something private that was not his right to consider.
“Did you?”
“What if I did. He is a nice enough young man.”
“What kinship, Queen Stephana? There is not much time. Do you know what kind of kinship?” He watched her, saw the spark of fear in her eyes. She did not want to discuss this. Yet he saw something more, too. Something strange, alien to her. He saw tears start.
“He is the same as you, Queen Stephana. He is a dragonbard.”
Despite the tears, her eyes went wild at this effrontery. And with this truth, for she could not deny it. He moved closer, touching her with his nose.
“Prince Tebmund has been taken captive. He is chained in the stadium.”
Her eyes flew open.
“The king intends to use him in the games. He will die today, Queen Stephana, if you do not get up out of that bed and help him.”
“Die?” She breathed, her eyes searching and wild. Then her look was shuttered. She lifted her chin and regarded him steadily. “I can do nothing. What could I do?”
He stared at her in silence.
“What difference if he dies?” she shouted suddenly, her anger seeming to make her grow larger. “What difference? What good is he? What good am I?” She stared at Hexet, furious. Then, in a whisper, “What good is a dragonbard without . . . without dragons?” Her anger boiled out again. “That part of the prophecy was wrong! There are no more dragons!” She fixed Hexet with a defiant stare. Then she shrank into herself, and sat cowering in her blankets.
“What prophecy?” he said sharply. “What are you talking about?” Then, at her silence, “You must tell me. Is it a prophecy that has to do with Prince Tebmund? With dragonbards—with yourself? Where did you hear it?” He watched her, tense with excitement. “You must tell me. You must!
“Only you can help him,” Hexet said softly. “If you do not, they will kill him.”
He saw she was weakening. “His murder will be a curse on your soul, Queen Stephana.”
She stared at him in misery. He pushed his nose against her cold hands, but his look was hard, demanding.
At last she seemed to relax, to soften, to give up the battle. Her eyes were pained, and somehow younger. And then, so suddenly that she startled him, she was weeping, deep, racking sobs that alarmed him.
He had never seen her so out of control. Had she taken some of the drug? Roderica kept it here, did not put it into her food, took it herself sometimes, which explained, Hexet thought, Roderica’s wild changes in temperament. He pressed against the queen, and the old woman put her arms around him and bawled wetly into his shoulder.
When she subsided at last, she told him about the lyre, how the sudden knowledge of it had exploded in her mind when the spell was shattered.