Rain Wilds Chronicles

by Robin Hobb

Hest watched it come toward them, carried on the river’s swift current and pushed by the wind against its single square sail. He stood as he was, holding the rail, listening to the shouts from the other ship, and the round of orders issued by both captains. Each appeared surprised to see the other vessel. Hest thought of calling out and warning him that there had been a mutiny, that Chalcedean pirates now held the ship, but in the end he chose caution and silence. The captain and crew of the sister ship were Jamaillian, and as the vessels maneuvered closer to each other, it was obvious to him that they had already faced some sort of trouble.

  “Dragons!” someone on the other ship shouted. “We were attacked by dragons! Have you a surgeon aboard? We have need of one.”

  There were gouges in the ship’s hull, and part of one deck railing was completely gone. The lookout who shouted carried one arm in a sling, and his head was bandaged in a turban. Hest craned his neck, trying to see more, but suddenly the Chalcedean was at his elbow. “Go below. Now.”

  And Hest went, like a beaten dog, followed by his master, to be shoved down into the storage compartment again. The hatch closed and he heard it secured. He went and sat down in the corner of the locker and leaned his head back against the bulwark. Sound, he had discovered, carried oddly throughout the ship. He listened. He could not make out individual words, but there was some sort of a shouted conversation, and then, as he had dreaded, running feet on the deck above him and loud commands, heavy thuds and men yelling in anger or fear, and one clear scream of agony that was cut short. The thunder of pounding feet on the deck and the shouting went on for some time and he sat hunched in suspense, wondering what was happening and how it would affect his chances of survival.

  A brief quiet fell, and then noises resumed. He heard the cover of the other hatch being dragged open. The prisoners there no longer shouted and pounded on the walls as they once had; he suspected they were given enough food and water to keep them alive, but little more than that. But now the sounds he heard made him suspect the Chalcedeans had just added fresh specimens to their collection of ransomable captives. Did that mean they had captured the other vessel, or simply taken prisoners in some sort of skirmish? And why, in Sa’s name, would they do that?

  He drew his knees up to his chest and huddled onto his side, shivering in the chill. His mind raced, trying to think as they would. Of course. The other ship had shouted a warning to them about dragons. The other captain had found the way to wherever the dragons were. And now the Chalcedeans would use his knowledge to go where they must. To where dragons had attacked them. And Hest would go with them into that danger.

  Tintaglia flew again. Not gracefully, not easily, but she flew. With every flap of her wings, fluid pulsed in a slow dribble from her toxic wound. Pain echoed each beat. The infection was spreading, taking a toll on her whole body. All around the wound area, her scales were beginning to slip, leaving the bared area of skin soft and painful. When she slept long, she awoke with her eyes gummed shut and had to snort mucus from her nostrils. She was hungry constantly, but no matter how much she ate, she took no strength from her food. Everything was a task; all pleasure had fled from her life.

  Her landing in Trehaug had been disastrous. She had exhausted her strength quickly, and foolishly stooped to attack a herd of riverpigs in the shallows. She caught one, but it was small, and she had eaten it standing in the fast-flowing water. Her efforts to take to the air after that had failed. Three times she had beaten her wings furiously, and each time she had fallen back into the icy river. She’d been forced to spend a night in the cold water.

  By daylight’s dawning, she’d been scarcely able to stand. The thick canopy of trees leaning out over the river had made it impossible for her to take flight from the shallows. It had taken all her will to force herself to wade upriver. Only luck had delivered a basking tusker to her jaws that evening, after which she had slept on a narrow strip of reeds and mud. Two more days of sluggishly toiling up the river, eating whatever she could find, carrion included, had taken a toll on her. On the night she found a broad sandbar to sleep on, one that protruded beyond the overreaching trees, she had wondered if she would wake the following day.

  But she had. Lightened by privation, driven by desperation, knowing it was her final chance, she had leaped, beating her wings. And flown again.

  It took all her concentration to keep to her path. Each stroke of her wings now demanded a conscious effort and an iron will as she defied both pain and weariness to drive herself on. Soon she would have to divert from her course and find something to kill and eat. Only then would she allow herself to sleep. Already her body nagged her with weariness. She wanted to stop now, but every day she flew less and rested more. One day she would not be able to rouse herself and make the immense effort to rise once more to the skies. If that day came before she reached Kelsingra, then she would die. And dragonkind would die with her, her immature eggs never laid. Ever since she had seen the incompetent weaklings that had emerged from the last serpents’ cases, she had known that she was the sole hope of her race.

  Until, that was, the single arrow of a treacherous human had doomed her dreams. Sometimes, as now, when the pain blossomed brighter and brighter in her side and made every muscle in her body ache with its echoes, she took refuge in hatred. She fed it with plans and dreams of how she would take vengeance on those humans, how she would return to Chalced when she had her strength back, to sear their paltry cities with dragon fire and dragon might. She would kill hundreds, thousands of them in her revenge, and teach them forever more to fear the wrath of a dragon.

  With every downward stroke of her wings she renewed her vow to fill the streets of those cities with screaming humans.

  Kelsingra. Not far now, she promised herself. Much farther than Trehaug, true, but she could make it. She could because she must. Sometimes, just as sleep claimed her, she heard the distant dragons. They had found Kelsingra and created Elderlings for themselves and wakened the city. Awake, she could not reach their minds. It was only when she was on the verge of exhaustion that their distant thoughts intersected with hers. Once she had even thought that Malta reached out to her, her thoughts full of anxiety and reproach. She had tried to respond to her Elderling, tried to command her to be ready to serve her dragon. But awake, the pain fogged her mind and made tasks as simple as flying and hunting challenges for her. Still, that their thoughts could brush hers meant that it could not be much farther.

  At least the rain had stopped for a time. At least she was not flying against the wind. Such small comforts were all she had. She beat her wings steadily but flew lower over the river, watching for game and thus heard the cacophony of sound before she saw the source. When she saw the two boats below her, she knew a moment of fury. The two vessels were locked together, their crews shouting at one another and throwing each other into the river. Not a hunt for meat, just killing each other, as usual. Noisy, useless smelly humans! Their uproar would have driven all game from the area. Just when she needed her hunting to be effortless, they had complicated it. No game of any size would venture within earshot of their useless squabbling. If she could have spared the energy, she would have circled back and spat venom at them for the trouble they had caused her. She flew low over them, hearing their cries as the wind of her passage rocked both vessels. As she did so, she caught a scent that lifted her hearts.

  Dragon venom.

  Grunting with the effort, she banked her wings and circled back. Yes. There were acid runs and scorches on the deck of the one vessel. It was clearly the work of an angry dragon. Or dragons? She took a long snuff of the air as she passed over the ship. Possibly more than one. Certainly it was not the work of Icefyre. She knew his rank musk well. No, the vengeance below did not reflect his temperament either. The boat still floated and the crew had been allowed to escape. Not Icefyre then. Other dragons. Other dragons that could fly! Fly, and spit acid fire. Real dragons. Hope blazed up within her and she resumed her course, her will to ignore the pai
n and live reinforced. Other dragons. Her dreams had steered her true. Other dragons lived and flew in the sky over Kelsingra. A future awaited her.

  She followed the river, leaving the humans and their noise behind, around a lazy bend and then on, until she came to a long muddy spit covered in winter-dead rushes. Fortune favored her in the form of a herd of riverpigs that had emerged from the water to snout and dig in the rushes. Some ancient memory or perhaps a more recent experience alarmed them as her shadow swept over them, for they squealed and began to rush back toward the water. She answered their squeals with a scream of her own, expelling pain and hunger as she banked far too sharply on her injured side. She more fell than dived on the herd, coming down with every taloned foot extended wide. Her chest hit a large pig, pinning him to the muddy bank, and her left claws raked another wide open. With her right she convulsively seized an animal, pulling it in close to her body and uniting his squeals to the cries of the one trapped under her chest. Her eyes spun with red fury at the pain it had cost her to make her kill, and she savaged the two trapped pigs to a messy death, tearing them into pieces.

  When their dying squeals faded, she remained as she was, sprawled upon her kills, trying to draw breath. Stillness was her only hope of making the pain subside. And after a time, it did, but not to its previous level. It was something she had noticed: every day it hurt more, and every day the sudden spikes of agony that a wrong movement could deliver became more debilitating. Yet the spilled blood smelled so good, and the warmth of the freshly killed prey beckoned her. As cautious as if she were woven of glass strands, she extended her neck to pick up a chunk of pig. She gulped it down, waking her hunger. Need warred with pain. She could scarcely stand, but managed to maneuver herself over the mucky ground to reach her kills.

  As soon as the last piece was swallowed, lethargy rose up to claim her. It was still early in the afternoon. There was plenty of light to fly by still, but she had no strength for it. Pain still ruled her, but the muddy bank was chill and damp. She dragged herself to slightly higher ground, to where the rushes had not been crushed and dirtied by her battle. She considered, regretfully, that if she slept now, she would be here all through the night. She would not wake in time to fly more today. It was as it was, she decided. She settled, gently arranging her body in the position that hurt least and closing her eyes.

  Day the 3rd of the Plough Moon

  Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders

  From Reyall, Keeper of the Birds, Bingtown

  To Detozi, Keeper of the Birds, Trehaug

  Enclosed, a transcription of a hand-carried message from Wintrow Vestrit Haven, captain of the liveship Vivacia and consort to the Pirate Queen Etta Ludluck.

  Please note that dates indicate this message has been delayed by several months, through no fault of the Bird Keepers’ Guild. It is addressed to the Khuprus household, but appears intended for Reyn and Malta Khuprus.

  To my sister, Malta Vestrit Khuprus, and her husband, Reyn Khuprus, of the Rain Wild Traders:

  Sister, Brother, if you can summon that dragon of yours, there was never a better time for you to do so. My efforts to locate Selden have been fruitless. I wish he had contacted me before he undertook a journey in this direction, for I would have made sure that a suitable escort was provided to an Elderling lord and dragon-poet such as he. For now, I am heartsick to tell you that I have received tidings of a “dragon boy” that somewhat matches a description of Selden since his Elderling changes. I both hope and fear that this is indeed our little brother. My hope is that at least he was alive when this gossip reached me, and my fear is that he is in dire need of help as he has been taken as a slave of sorts, displayed as a wonder for the ignorant gawker. I pray to Sa to keep him safe wherever he may be, but I have also offered a substantial reward if he is brought safely to me. I regretfully add that I have promised a reward also for reliable news of his demise, with evidence, for I would know what has become of him, no matter how much sorrow it brings me.

  What was our mother thinking, to let him go off on his own like this? Did no one there think of how valuable a hostage he was to any that cared to take him?

  Vivacia sends greetings to Althea and Brashen, if you should see them. Etta earnestly desires them to know that our Paragon wishes to see the ship whose name he bears. I myself think he is still young to hear of that part of his heritage, for doubtless the Paragon would disagree and would impart far more information than a boy of his years needs to understand just yet.

  Please remember you are always welcome here and that we all most earnestly desire to see you again.

  And if Selden has since wandered home, in the name of Sa herself, send me word by the swiftest means possible.

  When I think of him, I still imagine him as a boy with his front teeth just beginning to grow in.

  My love to both of you, and my hope that this finds you both in good health.

  Your loving brother,

  Wintrow

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tintaglia’s Touch

  But we came so far!” Malta protested. “There must be something you can do! Please!”

  The golden dragon once more lowered his muzzle and drew his breath in as he nearly touched her child with his nose. The dragon’s head was so large that she could see only one of his eyes at a time when he was this close. That black eye seemed to whirl as he slowly lidded it and then opened it again. The wind off the river rose in a gust and swept past them. And Malta waited, hope painful in her chest.

  A number of the dragons had converged on the baths late last night. Alise had cautioned her that they would not be patient of questions when they were soaking lethargically. So Malta had risen at dawn and waited in the Square of the Dragons, knowing they must pass her before they could take to the skies to hunt. They were hungry. One after another, she had importuned them to help her babe. A few had simply passed her by as if she were a mad beggar woman. Others had paused to snuff the baby. “She smells of Tintaglia,” a green queen dragon had told her, and a tall cobalt dragon had said, “Would that I were of Tintaglia’s lineage!,” before he passed on. One after another, she had stopped them, sometimes with the aid of their keepers. Hunger flared in them, and she shared their relentless appetites when she spoke to them.

  Now only one remained. His slender, golden-haired keeper stood with her hand on his mountainous shoulder, almost as if her touch could restrain him. Hunger blazed inside him, but fondness for the little creature at his side tempered it. Malta felt how impatience simmered in the dragon, but desperation boiled in her own heart. She reached for courtesy, reviewed all she knew of dragons, and sank down in a low curtsy. “Please, O Glorious One. Please, proud lord of the Three Realms. Please help me understand.”

  Golden Mercor drew his head back and looked down on her once more. He was almost patient as he repeated what he had already told her. “No one here is sufficiently related to Tintaglia to accomplish what you ask. Her marks are on you and on your mate. She made you the Elderlings that you are. Your child has inherited from you the distinctive traits of the dragon who made you. For him to survive, the one who left her marks upon you must alter them so he can grow.” He snorted, and his rank carrion-scented breath smelled to Malta like death and despair. Perhaps he tried to be gentle as he said, “You should not have bred without the permission of your dragon.”

  “What?” Reyn demanded, fury scarcely caged in his voice.

  Malta made a small and hasty motion with her hand, trying to caution him to calmness, but as he stepped forward, his anger was like a cold cloud around him. Malta more felt than saw several of the dragon keepers who had accompanied them step closer to them. Plainly what she was now hearing was news to them as well. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw flecks of fury in one girl’s eyes. Thymara, yes, that was her name.

  “Permission?” the winged girl repeated in a low voice full of outrage.

  Alise suddenly held up her hands as if by doing so she could quell
the mood of the Elderlings or at least bid them suppress their frustrations. “Please. Malta, if you will, allow me to ask a few questions.” She stepped between Reyn and the dragon, as if her small body could shelter him from the dragon’s wrath. Mercor’s eyes were spinning faster, with tiny flecks of red in them. Malta held Ephron closer and reached out to seize Reyn’s hand. He put his arm around both of them, but he did not allow her to retreat. Mercor’s keeper stood biting her lip.

  Alise glanced back at them nervously and then lifted her voice. “Mercor, most gracious and golden of all dragons, font of wisdom and power, have patience with us, we plead. What you tell us confounds us, and we seek only to understand.”

  Even in an Elderling robe, standing as tall as she could before the dragon, the Trader woman looked short and round now. Her body had not changed, Malta realized. It was her contrast to the tall and willowy Elderlings who surrounded her that made her seem like a creature different from them. Yet all the dragons seemed to treat her with respect. Certainly she seemed most adept at speaking to them. Malta was as frustrated as she was frightened, but bit back her anger and made not a sound. Alise had kept the golden dragon’s attention when he had seemed on the point of dismissing them all. He looked at her, and pleasure at her praise seemed to shimmer off his golden scales like heat from a stove.

  “Ask your question, then,” he invited her.

  Malta clutched at Reyn’s arm. She could feel the ridged muscles in his forearms and knew how difficult it was for him to restrain himself. After days of waiting for the dragons to converge and have speech with them, it seemed that all the creatures could tell them was that Ephron must die. Had they come so far and waited so long just to hear what she had most feared from the moment of his birth? She looked down into the little face she held so close to her breast. Her son was swaddled in an Elderling tunic to keep the cold and damp from him, but even so, he never seemed warm to her touch. His dragon scaling was bright where it outlined his brow and the line of his nose, but his human flesh below it seemed grayish, and he was so thin. The little hand that had ventured outside his coverings clutched at her with fingers more like a bird’s bony talons than a child’s fat fingers. An ache sharper than any physical pain she had ever endured stabbed her every time she looked at him. So tiny and so brief a life, and he had never known a moment of ease or contentment.