But now Meriden shouted, Do not part with it! Do not give it!
Teb stood up, confused, and stared around him, clutching the lyre.
Make the Ivory Lyre speak, Tebriel. But do not give it. Bring Bayzun’s power alive with its song.
Which was Meriden?
Which was the dark?
One voice was false—but how clearly it imitated hers.
Yet surely he had only to make one simple gesture, had only to lay the lyre at Bayzun’s feet, and he could resurrect the lyre’s power. There was no evil in Bayzun, only the power of the light.
Do not let the lyre from your hand! the voice cried.
He looked at Seastrider, sick with uncertainty.
Lay the lyre at the feet of Bayzun, Tebriel. Do not play it now, in this place. Give the lyre to Bayzun. . . .
Surely that was Meriden.
Make the lyre speak, Teb, do not give it. Sing Bayzun alive, sing his power alive.
The voices dueling inside his head dizzied him. He plucked one string so hard the little lyre shook. . . .
But it was silent.
He stared at it, shocked into choking dismay. He had used its strength too recently, to save himself in the drug dens of Sharden.
They needed the lyre now, more than Tirror had ever needed it. Shame held him. Terror held him.
You must renew its strength, Tebriel—at the feet of Bayzun.
Yes. Yes. That was Meriden’s voice.
Chapter 27
Cries of battle echoed through the cave. Teb saw visions of animals falling and arrows piercing the diving dragons. He saw Snowblitz thrashing with a bleeding wing and saw the dark unliving striding among the fallen, tasting gore, swinging their swords and laughing. He tried to bring power with his own voice, with song. Sweating, choking, he could hardly use his cracking voice. The lyre remained silent.
There is only one way, Tebriel. Give the lyre to Bayzun. There it can regain its strength. Our armies are dying, Teb.
He had failed Tirror twice, failed them all. He must not fail now. He stood staring at Bayzun’s skeleton and could do nothing. Bayzun stared back at him, seeming engorged with eerie power.
Did not Bayzun command him to return the lyre? Why else was he here, but to return it? Again he knelt before the skeleton. What harm could come from Bayzun? He held out the lyre, reaching. . . .
But something stopped him, made him draw back. This was not the way. . . .
Thakkur’s words thundered in his memory. Do not underestimate Quazelzeg. . . .
He must trust nothing. To give the lyre from his grasp, in these endless and alien worlds, could risk everything. In one final, false step, he could give Quazelzeg and the dark a terrible power. Visions of the battle surged. He turned.
He saw Meriden astride her dragon, winging down the well of sky toward him.
But suddenly the dragon was gone. Meriden was falling, alone, falling through the endless cleft. . . falling . . . falling alone reaching out to him. Do not give the lyre. Dark winds tumbled her and flung her down chasms; boulders spun and bounced against her.
Quazelzeg’s voice exploded. “Give the lyre to Bayzun, and I will release her.”
“No!” she cried. “You will destroy everything!”
“Let her go!” Teb shouted. “I will NOT give the lyre! Release her!” But his voice choked with uncertainty.
Meriden was pulled through shifting winds and swept crashing into stone. She was pressed between stone walls so tight she was nearly crushed, could not lift her arms, stone crushing her cheek, twisting her body. . . .
“Give me the lyre!”
“I will NOT! Release her!” But he was shaking with terror for her.
Suddenly the rock exploded, throwing her into space again. Quazelzeg’s laugh was terrible, thundering echoing as she fell careening among pieces of the mountain. Visions of battle clashed around Meriden’s falling figure. The armies of light were pulling back. The whole of the universe seemed filled with the dark’s swelling power.
He must make the lyre speak. He must.
He tried, straining, and could not.
“Give the lyre! Save your mother! Save Tirror!”
Defeat filled him. He had no choice. He could not let her die—even for Tirror. He stared at Bayzun’s mutilated toes, from which the lyre had been carved.
“No, Teb! No!”
How could he help but give it? He reached out with the lyre. . . .
Quazelzeg appeared suddenly, blocking the skeleton, pulling the lyre from him. . . .
“No!” He struck Quazelzeg’s hands from the lyre, broke his grip with one sharp blow, knocked the un-man down as he jerked the lyre away. He shouted a bard’s song at Quazelzeg, wrought of all the pain and love in him. A terrible power of love rose out of him, a power he had nearly denied, love for Tirror, love for all the world he had nearly lost—love for his mother and what she was and for all those close to him. They would be nothing if Tirror were lost, they would all be lost, Meriden destroyed. In that moment of terrible understanding, his hands struck the strings again and the lyre sang out fierce and wild with love.
But in the moment that Quazelzeg had held the lyre, a rift had been torn between worlds. Quazelzeg’s laughter thundered. “Too late! Useless! Too late—the Doors are open now!” Teb saw the hordes pouring through onto the battlefield. A blood-faced shade scuttled through. A vulture with a woman’s eyes fled through. Too late. . . . The barrier had been torn. The dark hordes came rushing. Doors flung open across a thousand worlds and a black mass of monsters poured into Tirror, leaping onto the backs of the retreating armies, slashing at the horses’ legs. The lyre’s song rang out, and the attack faltered—but not enough. From every palace window and door, dark incubi and blood-licking demons crawled and flew, howling, reaching. The air was a tangle of screams and groans and stinks. Quazelzeg’s laughter thundered. ‘Too late, too late . . .” A young otter was stabbed, screaming. Monstrous vultures snatched up foxes and wolves.
“No!” Teb shouted. “No!” Not even the lyre was stopping them. “Bayzun!” he shouted. The lyre wailed. He prayed to the Graven Light, and he prayed to Bayzun. He slapped the silver strings with a love for Tirror that nearly tore him apart. The lyre’s voice rang so mightily he could feel it stinging his blood; suddenly it shouted a dragon’s raging bellow, and Teb shouted with it, “Bayzun!”
Bayzun’s skeleton vanished. The huge black dragon loomed over him, its breath blazing, its eyes like fire.
The voice of the lyre was Bayzun’s voice. The black dragon exploded past him out of the cave on immense wings, his red mouth open in a bull dragon’s bellow. Teb turned, playing the lyre with all the power in him, and Meriden was there astride Dawncloud, rocking on Bayzun’s wind beside the cave door.
“Now!” she cried. “Now . . .”
Teb leaped for Seastrider and felt Seastrider’s excitement, felt the closeness of the two dragons, mother and child. The lyre’s voice thundered as the dragons wheeled together up the cleft, following Bayzun. Where—where was a way through . . . ?
It was that moment, in vision, that Teb saw Thakkur fighting something dark and grinning, saw the white otter’s sword flash, saw him back the vampire-toothed demon away with snarling rage and drive his sword in; but too late—Teb cried out as Thakkur was struck from behind, as Thakkur fell. . . .
Thakkur . . .
And Teb could not reach him.