Rain Wilds Chronicles (204 page)

Detozi and I will together take the sealed message, along with your letter, to Master Godon and ask that he present it unopened to the full circle of master bird handlers here in Trehaug for them to open and study.

I am extremely grateful to have this serious business taken out of my hands.

Your former apprentice,

Erek Dunwarrow

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

The Well

P
lease. I can't sleep. Go walking with me. Please.”

Thymara blinked her eyes. Rapskal's gaze was pale blue in the dimly lit room. In a bed on the other side of the room, Tats was snoring softly. Without speaking of it, she and Tats had resolved that they would not leave Rapskal on his own. Not tonight. Tats had claimed one of the larger rooms in the dormitory above the dragon baths, one with multiple beds in it. Carson had given them the nod for that. Some of the other keepers had drawn lots for guard duty for their “guests.” They had been confined for the night to the dining room. They'd been allowed to bathe and given bedding, and most of them seemed to have accepted their fates. A few had complained, and one Jamaillian merchant had wailed and ranted about being treated like a “criminal and forced to lie down alongside ‘filth.' ” Carson had drawn a lot for the first watch, and Sedric had stayed with him, with Relpda to keep them company. Privately, she doubted that any of their “guests” would attempt to leave with a dragon snoring across the entryway.

She and Tats had herded Rapskal away and up to one of the unoccupied sleeping rooms. Weary as they were, there had been much to discuss. There they had sat, listening to Rapskal unwind his story of the dragon attack on the ships. The longer he talked, the less he sounded like Tellator and the more like his old self.

Rapskal had always been a talker, always the one who could go on and on about any topic. Tats had dozed off before she had. She had listened to Rapskal tell his story, listened to him brag of how brave Heeby had been and how glorious the dragons had looked in flight. She had waited in vain for him to say that he was horrified at how many men had died. The old Rapskal would have done so. Instead, he simply seemed to accept it as how a battle went. When she mentioned it, he asked her incredulously, “Would you rather that more dragons had died? Poor Tintaglia lies in the Square of the Dragons! By morning, all that will be left of her is her memories and her flesh. The eggs inside her that should have become serpents, our next generation of dragons, die with her tonight! Have you thought of that, Thymara? I must look at that and wonder how I would feel if it were my Heeby lying there. What if it were Sintara?”

“Sintara,” she said quietly, and wondered how she would feel. A spark of anger in her heart surprised her. In a distant corner of her mind, her dragon spoke softly.
You would be devastated. And furious. Just as they are.

I would,
she admitted. She pulled her mind free of the dragon's. But what would she do if something befell her dragon? What happened to an Elderling when her dragon died?

They die, too. Not right away, but sooner than if the dragon had lived.

She pushed Sintara from her mind again. She didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to think about what would become of Malta and Reyn and their baby. “Our dragons are back in Kelsingra now, alive and well. It's over, Rapskal.”

“It's not over,” he insisted, and she heard a tinge of Tellator's stubbornness in his voice.

“It is,” she replied. “Our dragons are here in Kelsingra and safe. They never need leave here again. The man who led the attackers here, that Chalcedean noble, is dead. And that corrupt Trader promised he would reveal everyone who plotted against the dragons. They will be punished. So. It's over.”

Rapskal shook his head. They were both sitting on his bed. Tats had dozed off on the bed across from them. Thymara leaned back on the wall. She was ready to fall asleep but wanted Rapskal to sleep before she did. She could outlast him. She hoped.

Rapskal crossed his arms on his chest. “The dragons can't and won't stay here forever. It's not in their nature, and you, as a hunter, must know that they can't. They need to move seasonally, to find new prey and give these populations a chance to rebuild. Even if we had the herds and flocks here that they need, they were never content to be resident here year-round. And they must leave when it's time to go lay their eggs.”

Those words were not Rapskal's. She'd never heard him choose such words. She stared at him and he mistook it for avid interest. He smiled at her.

“Thymara, it won't be over until the man who sent them is stopped. Think about it. Those men today, those Chalcedeans, they said they were forced against their will to come. I listened to what they said. If they go home without dragon flesh, they and their families will die. Horribly, slowly. If they stay here much longer, sending no messages promising success, their families will be tortured. And when they are all dead, the Duke of Chalced will find others to send. He's not going to give up.”

“He'll die soon. He's old and diseased, and he'll die soon. And then it will be over.” She just wanted to go to sleep. He was making her think of all sorts of things she didn't want to consider just now.

He turned his head and looked at her sadly. “You're right about one thing, Amarinda. When he dies, it will be over. And while he lives, it isn't over.”

“That's not my name,” she said, and she couldn't tell if she were more chilled by his comments or how he called her “Amarinda.”

He smiled at her tolerantly. “You still haven't come to understand the city completely. Or what it truly means to be an Elderling, bonded to a dragon. But you will, and so I won't argue with you about it. Time is on my side. You'll grow into the concept that you can lead more than one life, be more than one person.”

“No.” She said it flatly.

He sighed. And she had closed her eyes for just a moment. She must have dozed off because she woke to him tugging at her hand, asking to go walking. She sighed wearily. “It's night, Rapskal. Chill and dark.”

“It's not that cold out, and the city will light our way. Please, Thymara. Just a walk, to help me relax. That's all. A quiet stroll alone through the city.”

He had always been good at nagging her into whatever he wanted. She didn't wake Tats. He could sleep now and take the next watch with Rapskal if the walk didn't wear him out. She swirled her cloak around her shoulders, fastened it, and followed him out of the room and down the hall. He led her to the side entrance, away from the Square of the Dragons and the death watch there. She did not object.

Outside, the chill wind kissed her face roughly.

Rapskal lifted his face. “Smells like spring,” he said.

She opened her senses to the night. Yes, there was something in the wind, something more wet than freezing. It wasn't warm, but all threat of frost had fled.

He took her hand, and she was grateful for his warm clasp. He ran his thumb over the fine scaling on the back of her hand. “You can't deny the changes,” he said, and before she could reply, he added, “Tomorrow, if you look up at the hills behind the city, you will see the birches and willows flushed with pink. On the taller slopes behind them, the snows are almost gone. Very soon, Leftrin will have to make a run to Trehaug to see if the seeds and livestock he ordered have come in.” He turned and smiled at her. “This will be the year we reawaken all Kelsingra. Years from now, it will be hard to remember that there was a time when cattle and sheep didn't graze in the pastures outside the city, a time when only fifteen keepers lived in the city.”

The fullness of his vision astounded her. She let him lead her as they walked through the dimly lit streets. As always, he filled the silence with his talk. “Once this city never slept. Once it was so populated that people walked through it by night and by day. There are whole sections of the city that we haven't explored yet. All manner of wonders awaiting rediscovery by the new Elderlings. Places where artists wrought miracles and craftsmen plied their trades.”

She thought of the dry Silver well and how it would limit their future. But this was not a night to talk of that. Let him talk himself out, and when his words ran down, she'd take him back to the baths and let him sleep. She thought of the morrow and all it must bring. She dreaded wondering how long Tintaglia would linger between death and life, and the child with her. She thought of Kalo devouring the dead dragon in the square and felt squeamish. She did not want to think of the arguments that would continue tomorrow over the fate of the Chalcedean warriors who had come here to kill dragons. She thought of the days before Tarman had returned, days filled with the simple work of hunting and trying to rebuild the docks and exploring the city. They had seemed so tedious, and now she longed to have that comforting boredom back.

She had suspected that Rapskal would try to take her back to the house Tellator and Amarinda had shared. She was relieved when he didn't. They walked through other streets, and he spoke of what he knew of them. A poet had lived in that house and written epics on the walls and ceilings. This bakery had been renowned for its sweet berry pastries. Here was a street where weavers had made the sort of garments that they both wore now. She knew he spoke Tellator's memories aloud as if they were his own, but she was too tired to rebuke him. Let him talk them out, and then perhaps Rapskal would come back to her.

He took her down a side street, and she found herself in a humbler part of town. “A tinsmith had that shop,” he told her. “The pans he made needed no oven to cook the food put into them. And over there? The woman who owned that store hammered out wind chimes that played a thousand melodies when the wind stirred them.”

“They worked in Silver,” she guessed and he nodded.

“Silver was the great secret treasure of the Elderlings and the tonic that made both Elderlings and dragons what they became.” He halted at a door hole. “Lack of it will kill us all,” he said conversationally, and he stepped inside the empty door frame of the shop. She followed him reluctantly.

“It's dark in here,” she complained and felt his assent.

“They did not use the Silver everywhere. Even then, it was a precious commodity. Where many might gather, they used it for light and for warmth. For art that all shared. But in the small personal spaces, they used far less of it.” He reached into his pouch and drew forth light. He held something out to her, shaking it free. A necklace with a moon-face charm on it. It brightened as he shook it, filling the room with a thin silvery light. It looked oddly familiar.

“Put it on,” he urged her, and when she did not, he stepped closer to push back her hood and loop it around her neck. The gleaming moon rested on her bosom and she looked around the shop. Little remained of the humble wooden furnishings, but there were things among the rubble that she recognized. An anvil of a kind she had never seen, yet she knew it for what it was. A stone table with grooves and drains in the surface: for working Silver. Reflexively, she lifted her eyes to where tools had once hung on a rack. The rack was gone, the tools a jumble on the floor where they had hung. A battered ladle tangled with a pair of shears. A sudden urge to pick them up, to tidy her workspace came to her.

“Let's go outside,” she said abruptly.

“We could,” he agreed. “But it wouldn't help. You can't run away from it. I don't want to force you, but time is running out. For all of us.”

Cold filled her. She turned to look at Rapskal, and the reflected light from the moon charm made his eyes silver. “What do you mean?”

“You
know,
” he coaxed her gently. “I've been waiting for you to admit it. You do know.” He paused and looked at her accusingly. “Amarinda knew. And so you know.”

You know,
Sintara echoed his words.
And it is time for you to stop being stubborn.

“I don't know,” she insisted to both of them. It hurt her feelings that they would close ranks against her and force her to this. Whatever “this” was. She spoke frankly to the man with the gleaming silver eyes. “You are scaring me. Tellator, go away. I want my friend Rapskal back.”

He sighed and spoke reluctantly. “The need is great. I love you. Then, and now, I love you. You know that. I have waited as long as I can, as long as any of us can. But we are Elderlings, and ultimately, we serve the dragons. Will you let Tintaglia die? Will you let Malta and Reyn and their baby die because you want to cling so strongly to who you were born? Thymara, I know you are frightened by this. I have tried to let you go as slowly as ever you wished. But tonight is our last chance. Please. Choose this. Choose this for me, for Rapskal. Because I would not force you. But Tellator would.”

She was shaking, fighting a battle inside herself as well as withstanding the crushing fear he woke in her. Memories were stirring, ones she did not want to acknowledge. She looked around her. “This was her little shop. She made things here.”

He nodded. “Not a shop, really. She sold the things she made, but she gave as many away. This was where she created her art. This was where you worked Silver with your hands.”