The Ivory Lyre

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The four dragons fled through the sky, their wings hiding stars, the wind of their passing churning the sea below. The two black dragons were nearly hidden against the night, but the two white ones shone bright as sweeping clouds. The larger white dragon carried a rider, a slim lad. He was barely sixteen, well muscled, tanned, dressed in stolen leathers, with a stolen sword at his side. He stared down between the white dragon’s beating wings at occasional islands fast overtaken. Then he looked ahead with rising anger at the island that was this night’s target. His rage matched the dragons’ fury for what they sensed there on Birrig.

“The dark unliving rule there,” the dragons screamed. “They are soul killers—the dark side of mortal. . . .”

“Yes,” Tebriel answered, “but they will die. We free Birrig this night.”

They dove in a rush of wind, Teb bent low to see between Seastrider’s wings as the dragons dropped toward Birrig’s wood.

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