Nightpool (22 page)

He could not see land in any direction and
could not imagine how far from Auric he might be. The sea heaved
and rolled in a different way out here so far from land, its
flowing surface broken only by the cluster of emerging tile
rooftops and stone walls, ragged and crusted with barnacles, that
thrust up out of the water. He knew he was seeing just the highest
towers and tallest buildings of the drowned city. The exposed
windows of the topmost rooms had lost their shutters, and looked
hollow and forlorn. The walls below the surface went all wavy with
the movement of the sea. The water all around the sunken city was
lighter, greener, marking the shallowness of this place. It must
have been a mountaintop city. The sea turned dark a way off, as the
shelf dropped into the awesome depths, as Charkky called the
deepest sea.

Which way was Auric? The sun sat so
perfectly overhead that he had no idea of direction. Later, when
the sun dropped, he would know. He could jump then, and swim for
it. If he rested in the water, took his time, he could swim for
hours.

If
nothing bothered him. When night
came he would follow the stars of the nine sisters, and Mimmilette,
which Thakkur called the one-legged cub, and the pale smear of
Casscassonne, Tirror’s false moon.

He leaned down to stare at the outside of
the wall, then began to pry off barnacles and stuff the tough
shellfish into his mouth. He hung there eating until he began to
feel sick, then righted himself and sat astraddle again. The
outside of the wall was rougher and would be easy to climb down. He
was squinting around at the horizon, trying to see a smudge of
land, when a stirring below made him turn back to stare down inside
the tower. The hydrus was slipping through into it, huddling its
three heads down to clear the space, then churning and flapping in
the water as if it sought his drowned body. Then it stilled and
stared up at him with all three faces. And it was now at last that
the hydrus spoke to him, filling him with fear and disgust. One
head spoke, and then another, echoing back and forth, the voices
harsh and resonant and pounding in his mind, pounding all through
him so he went weak and sweating. And it was then he knew deep
inside himself that he could not escape. That it would have him,
that if he climbed outward into the sea it would be out there at
him in seconds, that somehow it would have him down from the tower.
Every word it spoke increased his fear, though afterward he could
not remember those words, only knew their meaning. It would have
his mind; it would own him. The creature’s mind pulled at him so he
felt he was falling down into the dark circle of the sea beside
it. . . .

He did not fall. His mind went dizzy and
empty, and he lay unconscious along the top of the wall unaware of
anything, unaware of the hydrus that tried to command him. He was
aware only of a world within, of songs exploding to show scenes of
battle, ballads intricate and vivid with the seething life of
Tirror.

The song gave him ships headed through
heaving seas for a forested coast; it cried out in cadences that
made men and horses leap into the sea and swim through surf to
drive back defending armies; the song showed the land fallen waste,
the crops and towns burned. It showed new cities rising slowly amid
fear and starvation as the conquerors worked their slaves.

Then he saw children gathered, singing the
same song he heard, and he saw the bard who led them, standing tall
between the feet of a pearl-white dragon who sang with him; he
heard her song so clearly he started. And she made the songs come
to life more clearly than he ever had. He could hear the shouts,
and smell the horses and the blood, smell the sweat of the soldiers
and hear their cries. The dragon made it more real than ever he
could have done. And he knew her—for it was himself there standing
between her claws. He was certain all at once what his sense of
power meant, and knew why he longed for the dragon: He knew at last
with thundering clarity what he was born to do. The word
“dragonbard” flared in his mind, and all the songs he knew glowed
bright and waiting, meant to be told, meant to be sung, coupled
with the voice of the dragon. It was bard and dragon together who
made the songs live, made them real in the listener’s mind as if he
were truly there hearing the shouting and feeling the pain and joy.
She was a time-creature, taking the listener back, making him live
that time so he knew it as a part of himself. Dragon and bard
together, the making of song, the making of a magical reliving, the
continued rebirth of life, and of hope.

But then the brightness faded and his songs
began to darken and to change, and he could not prevent the
changing. Now he saw himself
forcing
the will of the dragon,
making it sing new, dark words. And in the darkness, he knew that
dragons had no right to make songs, that only he could make them,
painted in darkness, and that the dragon must be made to follow
him. Oh, yes, she would follow. The colors of
his
songs were
dark and fine, and a great crowd gathered to hear him and to
believe him. He felt his own power rising, growing, saw the throngs
that mobbed around him, yearning for his words. Yes, this was the
way, the way of the dark, the way the hydrus showed him, yes. This
was what he would do with his life—bring the dragon to him and
train her to sing as
he
wished, as the dark wished, for he
was the master, not she. His vision was steeped in shadows and
black mists that matched the voice in his mind, strong and soothing
and shaping his need, pushing back the flare of conscience that
prickled him.

He lay, at last, spent, spread-eagled along
the wall. The circle of sea at the bottom of the stone tower was
empty now. Above him the sky was dark but cloud-driven, the sun
long since gone and the sea wind chilled. He lay there for hours,
listening, seeing, changing inside himself. He thought of the
hydrus now with warmth and knew it had been right to bring him
here, knew it was the wisest of creatures, knew it would care for
him.

He sat up, ignoring thirst. He ate some
barnacles, sucking their meager juice. He must bring the dragon
here, the small dragon, the one called Seastrider, yes, and
together they would make their songs here. He would train her here
under the knowing guidance of the hydrus, he would train her to the
true way. Dark songs, yes, compelling songs to lead in
righteousness the hordes that must be led. . . .

At last he slept, flung across the wall.

How long the hydrus kept Teb he had no idea.
Time swam in dark patches of dream, and in between he drank from
the collected dew in the niches, and ate barnacles, and slept, or
thought he did these things. He was sure of nothing but the
thoughts of the hydrus guiding him as he huddled atop the stone
wall, chill at night and burning in the daytime, calling and
calling to the dragon, demanding that she come to him.

But then, sometimes his mind would lock
against the hydrus in weak battle and he would lie shivering,
knowing something that he could not bring clear, and then he did
not call out to the young dragon, but weakly warned her away. Yet
these transgressions were shortlived, and then he would once more
cleave to the dark will of the hydrus, knowing that this was the
true way.

He hardly remembered any life before this.
The otters were a vague memory of something imagined, and there was
nothing before that at all. Only the demands of the hydrus were
real. The dragon must come; it was urgent that she come so they
could begin their quest.

Oh, he would be a persuasive singer—the
hydrus told him so. His voice was clear and strong, very right for
the ballads, and the visions he made were sharp with detail. Linked
with the dragon the songs would be rich beyond belief, and soon
Tirror would know the real tales, and Quazelzeg would bring to all
the nations a time of truth and new rule. For only in Quazelzeg’s
plan was there truth. Only when all humankind and animals served
the true masters in unquestioning obedience, putting aside their
own unorganized and arbitrary pursuits, swearing fealty only to
Quazelzeg’s vision, would there be true design and harmony on
Tirror. And wouldn’t he sing of Quazelzeg’s virtues? All the songs,
now, were filled with his virtues. Teb’s commitment built, and the
small voice inside that cried out against the hydrus’s deceit was
stilled by Teb himself.

Yet that voice would not be completely
stilled and made him twist and fight in his sleep. But then when he
woke, the dark would take him once more and he would call out to
the dragon with all the lure he knew. She must come, the one dragon
must come to him for him to be whole and skilled and able at
Quazelzeg’s work. He must teach the joys of obedience, show each
commoner the true way in serving the benevolent dark masters. And
it was through the power of the dragon songs, bringing alive such
joys, that all commoners could be made to understand.

He had no notion how much time had passed,
nor did he care, the morning the hydrus brought him down off the
wall simply by commanding him to dive. He dove willingly down into
the small circle of sea, and the hydrus herded him through the
opening and out into the sunken city.

Broken walls rose out of the water, thick
with barnacles and moss. Tangled sea plants grew in shadowed ponds
under low roofs and up stairways. Schools of small fish flashed
through window openings. Eels hunted in dark watery chambers. The
hydrus herded him toward a stair. He climbed, and found himself in
a small room and heard a stone slab pulled across. Again he was a
prisoner, and alone.

The room must have been situated high up in
the palace, perhaps an attic or storeroom. There was a great stone
basin that might have been for bathing, and when he tasted the
water it held, it was fresh. He drank gulping, dipping his whole
face in.

Around the base of the steps that led down
into the sea, oysters and mussels clung in abundance, and it was
this as much as the fresh water that made him know the hydrus was
prepared to keep him here for some time. He pulled his knife from
his belt and ate, stuffing himself, wanting the strength the food
would give. It would take all the power he had to subdue the dragon
and train her, all his strength, perhaps, simply to make her come
to him, for it seemed he had been trying a long time.

*

Seastrider knew Teb called to her. Dawncloud
also knew, and while the young dragon was in a frenzy to go to him
and to battle the hydrus, Dawncloud bade her wait; Dawncloud
bellowed a challenge to the hydrus and to the dark, her green eyes
blazing, and she bade the dragonling wait. She saw her own songs
warped and twisted and darkening Teb’s mind, so fury held her. She
bid Seastrider wait, her voice like a clap of thunder.
He must
defeat the hydrus alone!

The dragonlings looked at her and were
still, curling down in the nest, Seastrider shivering.

So they waited, knowing the awesome twisting
of the dark songs, knowing Tebriel’s acceptance of the dark and,
sometimes, his feeble battle. They knew the power that held Tebriel
was like a killing fever. They waited, patient as only dragons can
be patient, as night followed day and moon followed moon and winter
brought raging winds and heaving seas. They felt Teb’s chill of
body and spirit, his fear. They saw spring begin, a watery sun.
They saw the otters searching, in Mernmeth and Pinssra and even as
far as Naiheth. But the drowned city where Tebriel was held lay
far, far from those submerged villages. They saw the otters give up
hope at last, all but the white otter leader. They saw a time when
Tebriel seemed lost, sunk steadily into the realm of the dark,
grown thin and scowling and without joy. They waited with a
dragon’s patience, all but Seastrider, who fidgeted and lurched out
on the winds and could not be still and sent all her young power to
join with Tebriel in his battle. And still they waited. Then at
last, they saw Tebriel rise in his spirit and recapture a living
strength. They saw him begin to battle with a new fierceness; they
saw his consciousness accept and know, at last, the powerful
treachery that gripped his senses.

*

It was spring. A heavy dark rain sloughed
across the sea, beating at the leaden water. Teb lay along the high
stone sill that ran along one side of the small stone room, looking
out through the thin strip of window that must once have been an
arrow slot. He watched the leaden sea and sky and shivered with
chill, then felt hot even as the cold wind sloughed in. He had been
ill for some days. Behind him in the stone room, rain poured down
through a hole in the high roof, into the stone basin, its cold
splashing dampening the walls; if he went down to drink, he would
be drenched and even colder.

He had been trying all morning to make the
dragon come to him. He was furious with the stubbornness of the
creature and would rather put it out of his mind. But the hydrus
made him keep on, directing his thoughts, demanding, and his own
irritable temper mirrored the vicious temper of the hydrus.

He had grown very thin. His body ached
often, and he was always cold. He went to sleep at night drowned by
exhaustion, desperate and furious at his failure. He did not try to
lure or cajole the dragon anymore, or beg her. He demanded. And
when he demanded, she seemed to draw farther away. But the hydrus,
in turn, demanded, and it would not let him rest.

Teb understood quite well his own importance
and the importance of the dragon he must master. They alone could
shape the beliefs of the people. The dark could conquer, the dark
could enslave, but it was bard and dragon who could make all Tirror
love the dark. It was bard and dragon alone who could forge a newly
designed history of Tirror and shape people’s minds to believe it.
It was bard and dragon alone who could weave into the minds of all
Tirror a memory of the dark leaders as gods.