Ivory Lyre by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

Why should she?
    “War brings forth strange talents,” Gram
said softly. “It brings forth strange feelings, too.” The old woman
hugged her, hard. “Come, tell me more about the wonderful horses of
Prince Tebmund. I would like to see them working on the training
field.”
    “Oh, Gram, they are wonders.” Kiri wiped
away her tears, sniffing. “I’ve never seen such horses. They will
rear and strike an enemy on command, will back and kick, and know
all kinds of surprising war tricks. If you will wear your warm
shawl, I’ll take you to watch them. You’ll laugh at Sardira’s
soldiers trying to keep their seats.”
    “You should be riding such horses, not the
king’s clumsy troops. Another talent,” Gram said, touching Kiri’s
hand, “another talent that will one day know its own.”
    It was not until Kiri lay snuggled in bed
beneath her thick quilt, leaving Gram nodding beside the fire, that
she wondered. What would this war bring forth in herself?
What might it force her to discover about herself? Not about the
child Kiri, or the woman-to-be Kiri, but about the other, secret
Kiri whom she hardly knew—the bard. The one who sang sometimes to
the speaking beasts. The Kiri who had such terrible yearnings for a
freedom and power that would never be and that she only half
understood.
    Kiri had made Colewolf smile with pleasure
when she sang at the last rebel meeting four months ago in the
secret underground cavern of Gardel-Cloor. She had made a small
song to bring alive times past—had made whispers echo in the
cavern—and the nebulous shadows of people a long time dead.
    If she had been paired with a dragon, the
shadows would have come to life, blazing into real figures, the
voices rung out strongly, the passions and desires of generations
become real. But she was only half a power, alone and incomplete.
She sighed. She was gifted, yes. Gram forever reminded her that she
had special gifts. But what good were they, alone?
    There were, in all the world of Tirror as
far as Kiri knew, only two other bards besides herself and her
father. There was golden-haired Summer, with eyes like the sea. She
was a capable spy and had gone as servant in the household of the
dark leader Vurbane, on Ekthuma. From there, Summer sent messages
home about the movement of the dark armies, about weapons stores
and supplies. Summer, too, felt an emptiness because she was
dragonbard-born, in a world without dragons.
    The other bard was seven-year-old Marshy.
Garit and a handful of resistance soldiers had found him as a baby,
abandoned in a muddy slew. Little crippled Marshy would not believe
there were no more dragons. He insisted on singing his clear-voiced
songs that made hazy images of children long vanished, and tore at
Kiri’s heart. He spoke of the singing dragons as if one day they
would come and lift Tirror out of war. But Marshy was only a little
boy and still a terrible dreamer.
    What good did it do that there were four
bards, when there were no dragons?
    Her singing had pleased the troops, though.
Maybe it had lightened their spirits. But her powers could wane so
quickly. They seemed strongest in the grotto of Gardel-Cloor.
Elsewhere on Dacia, the murky confusion the dark laid down was too
powerful for her. Then she had only her own eyes and ears and quick
feet to help her. She had not even the dimpled smile and naughty
eyes of Accacia with which to win people’s confidence. If she had
Accacia’s looks, she could be the cleverest spy in all Tirror. And
what did Accacia do with her beauty? Nothing of value, only that
which brought favors, diamonds, velvet gowns, and the most
luxurious apartments in the west tower. Kiri sighed. If she had
half Accacia’s looks, she could learn quickly enough all about
Prince Tebmund.
    Well, the first thing to do was take Gram to
watch his horses. If he saw her and Gram admiring them, it would be
easier to get acquainted.
    *
    Kiri and Gram woke to a foggy morning, the
rooftops and streets