by Robin Hobb
My Elderlings. Silver. Heal me. She threw the command at them with all her strength, too breathless to trumpet the words as she plummeted the last bit of distance to the ground. Her once-powerful hind legs folded under her as she struck, and then she fell to her side on the ground before them. Pain and blackness swallowed her whole.
“She has dozens of small wounds. Lots of nasty parasites in them. But if that was all that was wrong with her, I’d say we could clean them up, feed her good, and she’d be fine. It’s the infection and that big injury just under her wing. That’s foul, and it has eaten right into her. I can see bone in there.” Carson rubbed his weary eyes. “I’m not any kind of a healer. I know more about taking animals apart than I do about curing one. I’ll tell you one thing, though. If that was game I’d brought down, I’d leave it lie. She smells to me like bad meat, through and through.”
Leftrin scratched his whiskery chin. It was venturing toward morning of a day too filled with events. He was tired and worried about Alise and heartsick about Malta’s child. He had felt a wild thrill of hope when some of the keepers had begun shouting that Tintaglia had returned. But this was worse than the news of her death had been. The dragon lay there in the grand open square, soon to be dead. Malta sat on the ground beside her, huddled in her cloak, her child in her arms.
“The Silver!” she had cried out into the stunned silence that followed Tintaglia’s fall. “Bring me all the Silver we have!”
Leftrin had expected that someone would object, that some other dragon would wish to claim a share. To his surprise, no one had challenged her. All the keepers seemed to think it an appropriate use. Only one of the dragons had lingered to watch what would happen. Night was chill and dark; dragons preferred the warmth of the baths or the sand wallows for sleeping. They were not humans, to keep a vigil by a dying creature. Only golden Mercor had remained with her. “I do not know why Kalo kept her alive, nor why he brought her here to die,” he had commented. “But doubtless, he will return for her memories. When he does, I caution you to be well out of his way.” When the others dragons had wandered away from the dying creature as if Tintaglia’s fate shamed them, he had remained, standing and watching.
Sylve had run to fetch the flask of Silver and brought it out to the plaza. She carried the flask two-handed, and the Silver inside it whirled and swam as if alive and seeking escape.
“What do you do with it?” she asked as Malta gave the child to Reyn and took it from her hands. Such trust there had been in her voice, such belief that the queen of the Elderlings would know what to do for the fallen dragon.
But Malta had shaken her head. “I don’t know. Do I pour it on her wound? Does she drink it?” All were silent.
Malta followed Tintaglia’s outstretched neck to her great head. The dragon’s large eyes were closed. “Tintaglia! Wake! Wake and drink of the Silver and be healed! Be healed and save my child!” Malta’s voice quavered on her final plea.
The dragon might have drawn a slightly deeper breath. Other than that, she did not stir. In her opalescent robe that brushed the tops of her feet and clutching the flask of gleaming silver liquid, Malta looked like a figure from a legend, but her voice was entirely human as she begged, “Does no one know? What should I do? How do I save her?”
Sylve spoke quietly. “Mercor told me the dragons drank it. Should you pour it into her mouth?”
“Will she choke?” Harrikin ventured a cautious question.
“Tintaglia? Tintaglia, please,” Reyn ventured.
“Should I pour it in her mouth?” Malta asked the golden dragon directly.
“There is not enough there to save her,” Mercor said. “No matter what you do with it.” Then he had turned and walked away from them, up the wide steps and into the baths. Sylve looked shocked.
The words seemed not to register with Malta. “I can scarcely feel her,” Malta said, and Leftrin knew she did not refer to the hand she laid lightly on the dragon’s face. “She has grown so much since I last saw her,” she added, and for a moment, she sounded almost like a doting parent. She stroked Tintaglia’s face, and then pushed at the dragon’s lip. Leftrin drew closer to watch, as did the gathered Elderlings. The lifted lip bared reciprocating rows of pointed teeth, neatly meshed together.
“There is room between them, I think, if I pour it slowly,” Malta said. She spoke very quietly as if she and the dragon were the only creatures in the whole world. She tipped the flask and the silver spiraled out in a slender, gleaming thread. It did not flow swiftly, as water would have, but cautiously, as if it lowered itself to the dragon’s mouth. It touched her teeth, pooled briefly along her gum and then seemed to find the entry it sought. It vanished between her teeth. No last drop fell from the flask; it had poured like a spooled thread unwinding and so it vanished, too.
The night seemed darker with the Silver gone from sight. The ghost light of the Elderling city gleamed softly all around them. The keepers stood, waiting and listening. After a long, chill time, murmurs began. “I expected a miracle.”
“I think she is too far gone.”
“She should have poured it on the wound, perhaps.”
“Mercor warned us there wasn’t enough,” Sylve said miserably, and she hid her face in her hands.
Reyn had been crouching beside Malta, their child in his arms. He stood up slowly and lifted his voice. “We would be alone with our dragon and our child, if you do not mind,” he said. He did not speak loudly, but his words seemed to carry. Finished, he sank back down to the cobblestones beside his wife.
In ones and twos, the keepers drifted away. Sedric tugged gently at Carson’s arm. “We should go,” he said softly.
Leftrin glanced over at them. “You should,” he agreed gently. “There’s nothing else any of us can do here. And death is a private thing.”
Carson had nodded, plainly reluctant to leave. Sedric had stepped forward. He unfastened the catch of his cloak, lifted it, and swirled it around Malta, Reyn, and their child. “Sa grant you strength,” he said, and then stepped quickly away, shaking his head.
Leftrin looked around the square. He was the last. He stepped forward, thinking to ask them if they were sure, if there was anything he might bring or do for them. Then he thought better of it. He turned and walked slowly away from the dragon. Away from the Elderlings and their dying child. He felt as if loneliness filled in the space he left behind him. Loneliness and heartbreak.
He pulled his old coat tighter around himself. It was not a time to be alone. The city whispered all around him, but he didn’t want to hear it. Long ago, the city had died, and now he suspected he knew why. A cataclysm might have shattered it and sent some of the Elderlings fleeing. But when the Silver had run out, then the end had been inevitable.
He thought of the youngsters he had brought up the river. He had not meant to come to care about them. Just fulfill a contract, have a bit of an adventure in the process, maybe draw a chart that would carry his name into history. And then return to running freight on the river on his beloved liveship. He hadn’t wanted his life to change this much.
Alise.
Well, perhaps he had. He sighed, feeling selfish that while others paid a serious price, he had gained a woman who loved him. A woman who was giving up everything to be with him. Hest had made it real for him today. So tall and grand a man, dressed so fine, speaking so genteelly. He had begged her to come back to him.
And she had turned her back on all that, for him.
She was waiting for him now, back on his liveship. He walked faster.
Day the 14th of the Plough Moon
Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders
From Erek, of Trehaug
To Kerig Sweetwater, Master of the Bird Keepers’ Guild, Bingtown
Kerig, it is with great relief that I have received your message. Detozi has also felt great anxiety and fear that our actions would be interpreted as disloyal to the Guild or perhaps even indicative of being traitors to the Guild
.
I am glad to say that Two-Toes has gained weight and that the color to his hackle and bib has brightened. His foot was badly cut from hanging, but he has recovered warmth and movement in his toes. If he does not recover sufficiently to carry messages, I suggest that he is still of great breeding value and should be retained in that capacity. As you suggest, I will ask permission to continue to care for him until his recovery is complete. In any case, a live bird that was listed as dead is definitely a part of a much larger mystery!
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
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Well
Please. 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 kee
pers 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.”