by Robin Hobb
“Icefyre knows he scares me. He overflies us so close that I can scarcely draw a breath in the wind of his wings. Or he goes very high, and then sweeps in right in front of Kalo, so that he must either dodge or collide with the old bastard. And if I get frightened and beg Kalo to let him fly where he wishes, Kalo becomes annoyed with me.”
“I could ask Sestican if you might ride with me,” Lecter offered, but Davvie had shaken his head.
“No. That will just make Kalo angrier with me. He wants me to shout insults at Icefyre. He says he will not dare to attack us, but how can he know?” After a moment, he added quietly, “Thank you all the same.”
Their camps at night often seemed oddly festive to Reyn. He felt the old man among such youthful Elderlings. They quickly fell back into the routine they had obviously shared before. Every day, as afternoon began to approach evening, the dragons descended, demanding to be rid of riders and harnesses so they might hunt. Once dismounted and the dragons launched, the keepers commenced gathering firewood and setting up a camp. The dragons gave little thought to the comfort of the humans they were abandoning for the hunt. The keepers might find themselves in a hillside meadow one afternoon and on a rocky mountain ridge the next. Reyn watched in admiration as they quickly arranged their bedrolls and set out to look for water and meat. Sometimes they found neither, but as often as not, one of them would bring down a rabbit or a wild goat to share. They all carried hardtack, tea, and dried fish, so even when the hunting was scarce, they did not go hungry. Spring was upon the land, and at one stopping point, Sedric amazed them all by teaching them to gather dandelion greens and watercress from a stream. So they shared food and a fire and conversation every evening.
The first two nights there were jests and songs and some mock swordfights as some of the keepers experimented with their Elderling weapons. Rapskal tried to give them advice on stance and grip for their weapons, but soon gave up when it turned into good-natured roughhousing. Reyn watched the younger men measure themselves against one another and was relieved when a shout that food was ready broke up their exercises.
Shared hot meat and cold water seemed to content all of them. They told him stories of their journey up the river, and he recounted how Tintaglia had carried him in her claws to search for Malta and dropped him into the sea when they found her. Pirates and rescued slaves and a Chalcedean fleet opposed by liveships seemed only a wonder tale to them, and he feared that his small effort to convey the terror and horror of that war only made it seem a glorious adventure.
Sometimes Rapskal told stories too. He spoke with a strange cadence, and sometimes he groped for words, as if the language of his birth did not allow for names of weapons and maneuvers. He spoke of dragon wars, when Kelsingra had had to defend itself against raiding parties of dragons seeking to make a claim on the silver seeps in the river. Reyn was heartsick to hear him speak of Elderlings battling one another on the ground as their dragons fought savagely in the air. Even worse was to know that the dragons’ and Elderlings’ enmity with Chalced reached back, not decades, but possibly centuries. The keepers sat in rapt silence when Tellator recounted stories of Elderlings captured and tortured by Chalcedeans, and the vengeance taken on their captors. There were times when Reyn thought that perhaps Elderlings were not so different from humans after all.
And times when he decided they emphatically were.
None of the keepers seemed to think it odd when Jerd chose a partner for the evening and they retired from the others, not even when she chose a different partner the second night. Davvie and Sylve shared blankets and a long night conversation that kept Reyn awake with their confidential murmuring. The lack of sexuality in their obviously intimate friendship puzzled him almost as much as Jerd’s casual promiscuity. He and Carson and Malta had had several long and philosophical conversations about how these new Elderlings might form their society. This was his first unveiled look at it, and he tried to conceal his surprise and dismay. He suddenly felt a stranger to their culture, as provincial as when he and Malta had been shocked by the hedonism of old Jamaillia. He lay awake both nights, wondering if this was the world that Phron would grow up in, and how the influx of other changed Rain Wilders that Tillamon would bring with her would view these new Elderlings. Those thoughts were almost more disturbing than pondering about the war that lay before them.
By the third night, he had accepted it as how things were among the keepers. That was the first night that Rapskal had all but bullied them into weapons practice after their meal. Reyn had thought it a bad time for it. They were all weary, and as soon as he had eaten, all he wanted to do was sleep. But he knew a bit of swordsmanship, more than any of the keepers, he thought, and he agreed with Rapskal that if they were going to carry such weapons, they should have some idea how to use them. In the evenings that followed, he tried not to let his discouragement show. Some of the keepers, such as Nortel and Boxter, were enthusiastic about learning and probably more dangerous. Davvie and Kase tried but were easily discouraged. Both Sylve and Jerd had brought bows, and both were fair but unexceptional shots with them. Rapskal was the one who surprised him. He easily matched Reyn’s level of skill, and in some areas he surpassed him. Even so, Reyn tried not to wonder how well any of their talents would hold up in battle conditions. He’d seen men fighting one another and dying on the decks of ships and had hoped never to witness it again. It was one thing to swing a blade in practice; it was another thing entirely to drive a knife into another man’s body.
Down below them, the late afternoon shadows stretched longer from the bushes, revealing to him that they were taller than he had thought they were. He did not look forward to spending a night in such a barren place but kept his mouth closed. It was useless to voice an opinion on where they landed. That would be determined by the dragons, and right now they were led by Skrim and Dortean. Their riders sat low in their saddles, leaning forward or dangerously far to the side and shouting comments to one another. Kase and Boxter were as alike as their orange dragons, and they had even chosen matching harnesses and tunics for themselves. He watched them and wondered if he had ever seemed as youthful and carefree as they did. They rode to war on dragons and seemed to accept it as just another day in their lives.
Behind him, he heard a wild shout and looked back to see that Icefyre had just made another pass at Kalo and his rider. He had only a glimpse of Davvie’s white face and open mouth before Tintaglia tipped sharply to one side. He seized the low arms of his dragon saddle and held tight as his body was thrown heavily against the side of it. They fell away from the formation. Distantly he heard Davvie shouting something about “you torn-up old umbrella!” His effort to insult the black dragon would have made Reyn laugh if he hadn’t been in fear for his own life.
He fought to draw a breath against the wind slashing past his face. His fingers hurt from holding on so tightly, and still they fell. He felt blood start to pound in his face and then it dripped warmly from his nose. He could not form his thoughts into words to beg mercy from the dragon; instead he simply pressed his terror toward her mind and held on as tightly as he could as the sere brown earth rushed up at him.
Then the world shifted and he closed his eyes and gripped until his fingers were numb as his body was slammed in the other direction. When he opened his eyes, the wind against his face pressed out tears that ran along the sides of his face. Tintaglia was moving in a long swift glide over the face of the hard earth. Ahead of them, a herd of deerlike creatures were bounding along in high leaps. He feared he knew what was about to happen. “No!” he pleaded, and then the impact came.
Reyn was flung against his chest strap so hard that it drove the breath from his body. He felt something furry hit him hard and then bounce away. For a moment or perhaps longer, he lost awareness. When he came back to himself, dusty air filled his nostrils and the shrill bleating of injured animals. He opened his eyes, wiped at them, and blinked. He tried to climb out of his seat before he remembered that a strap across
his chest secured him. He unbuckled it with sore fingers, stood up, and tumbled to the earth. He collapsed there, delighting in how still it was, how firm under his hands. Then he felt the dragon move and he got up, first to his knees and then barely upright as he made a shambling run away from her. He passed two bleating deer, their shattered bones sticking out of them like bloody sticks. A third was lying still, and the fourth had its head bent at an improbable angle. He threw himself down on top of it.
He waited for his heart to calm. His hearing came back more strongly and he could breathe again. He wanted water but didn’t want to go back to the dragon saddle to get it. He could wait. Never bother a dragon in the first few moments of a kill, he counseled himself.
He heard shouts and dragon roars and then felt the blast of hot air against him as other dragons landed. Riders were hitting the ground, pulling straps free, and then standing back as the unburdened dragons took flight again. He sat up slowly, taking care to retain possession of the deer. If nothing else, he intended to have a decent meal out of Tintaglia’s rough treatment of him.
Sylve, her blond hair a mat of permanent tangles after days of windy flight, came to stand over him. “Are you all right?” she asked him timidly. Her fingertips touched her own lips and chin lightly, and she worried, “That’s a lot of blood.”
He swiped his arm across his face. “Just a bloody nose,” he assured her. Staggering to his feet, he seized one of the deer’s hind legs. “Let’s carry this off before the dragons take it away from us,” he suggested.
She seized the other hind leg and they began dragging it over the desiccated earth. The air was hot and dry. The other keepers were already gathering in the dappled shade of one of the taller trees. Most of the other dragons had already left. Tintaglia was still crouched over her kills. He noticed that no dragon had been bold enough to claim any part of it. And that her harness had been removed. “Who unsaddled her?” he asked.
“Rapskal.” Sylve looked back at Tintaglia. The dragon was tearing a deer carcass in half, one foot bracing it on the ground. “Sometimes I think he’s fearless. Other times, I think he’s just stupid.”
“Sometimes they go together,” Reyn observed. His head suddenly spun, and he had to stand still. He dropped the deer leg and held his hands over his eyes for a moment. “She gave no thought to me at all when she dived on that herd,” he muttered. “No thought at all.”
“They never do,” Sylve agreed with him. “Oh, Mercor is better than most at considering what might happen to me. But even he dismisses my well-being when it comes to ‘dragon business.’ Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
Rapskal, having approached them, overheard the last of their conversation. He stooped, gathered the deer’s front and back legs in each hand, slung the carcass over his back, and stood up easily under the burden. Reyn’s estimate of his strength abruptly changed.
“We cannot expect dragons to consider us: it is our duty to consider them. I think we will reach Chalced tomorrow and see the capital city soon after. We will be flying into battle immediately; there is no point in letting them prepare to meet us.”
They followed him, and now they reached the other keepers. Rapskal shrugged the deer off his shoulders, and it fell with a thud to the earth. He went down on one knee beside it, drawing his belt knife as he did so. Jerd came to stand at his shoulder and watch him. “We cannot expect them to think of us tomorrow during the battle. It will up to each of us to be sure we are securely fastened to our dragons. While we are mounted, our tasks are to watch for risks that our dragons may not notice. Of old, that would have meant that we had to watch for enemy dragons diving down on us or coming up behind us. That is not the case now, luckily.
“But the city of Chalced has long been fortified against its enemies. Of old, the fortified portion of the city of Chalced was upon a hilltop. I expect that will be the Duke’s residence. In any case, it is what we must first destroy. The ballista there will be set to rain missiles down on an army approaching from below. But if some clever commander keeps his head and thinks clearly enough, he may be able to adjust his machinery to fling large stones upward at us. And bowmen with powerful bows on top of towers may be able to speed shafts toward us. Even a small arrow driving deep into tender flesh can do great damage to a dragon, as Tintaglia has shown us. So it is the task of every keeper to watch for dangers to his dragon. That, above all else, must concern you.”
As he spoke, he began gutting the deer. He watched his hands, but spoke loudly and clearly, obviously intending to reach all the keepers. Once he had opened it, Sylve crouched opposite him and began skinning it, pulling the hide toward herself as she slashed it efficiently free of the meat below. Nortel came with a long stick, to spear the heart on a spit. Kase and Boxter were already busy with tinder and broken tree limbs. A thin spiral of pale smoke began climbing skyward.
Rapskal rocked back onto his knees, the liver a dark mass in his hands. His arms were blood-smeared to the elbow. He lectured on. “If your dragon lands, you are at his command. He may tell you to go into a building to drive the enemy out to him. If he is injured and unable to fly, it is your task to defend him to the death if need be. He may choose to leave you on the ground so that he can fight unencumbered. It is his choice.” He flipped the liver to Nortel, who caught it adroitly.
“Do any of us actually like deer liver?” Nortel asked rhetorically, earning a scowl from Rapskal.
The red-scaled Elderling’s knife moved surely, disjointing the deer’s hindquarter. “Venom drift. Have we spoken of this before? Your Elderling garb will protect you if it’s only a mist, but as soon as you possibly can, you should change clothing and discard the contaminated clothing. But it will protect only the parts of you that are covered, so if you see mist, cover your face and hands.”
He looked around sternly. He had freed a deer haunch from the carcass and had severed the shank free from it. “If it’s more than mist, if it’s a spray, then nothing can save you.” A look of knowing, of terrible weariness, came over his face, aging him far beyond his years. “If it’s thick and coming your way, blow all your breath out, and breathe deep when it hits. Suck it in and you’ll die fast. You won’t even have time to scream.”
“Sweet Sa,” Reyn breathed out, horrified. Nortel’s eyes were huge. Kase had gone so pale that the orange of his scales stood out on his face like errant flower petals.
“Does that happen?” Sylve asked. Her voice was steady but small.
“Sometimes,” Rapskal replied. “I’ve seen it.” His gaze was distant. He began to carve slabs of flesh off the haunch. Kase came with an armful of toasting sticks cut from a nearby bush. Without a word he passed them to keepers, who matter-of-factly began to claim shares of the meat. Reyn took his in turn and followed the group to the cook fire.
For a time, the conversation was of ordinary things. Who had salt? Did anyone want to eat the liver? Wondering what the ones who had remained in Kelsingra were doing and thinking. Reyn spoke of missing Malta and hoping that Phron did not grow too much while he was gone. Kase teased Sylve about being away from Harrikin. She blushed but freely admitted missing him. Sedric stared quietly at the fire.
Rapskal looked thoughtful. “Amarinda,” he said at last, and smiled sadly.
Jerd folded her legs, dropping down to sit beside him. She sighed. “You’ve seen many things in the stone, haven’t you, Tellator?”
He looked at her consideringly. “I lived many things,” he replied. “And other things I know from the stone ancestors I chose for myself. If one is to be a warrior, then one chooses the accounts of warriors, to read them from the stone and to use their experience again. And so I am Tellator, but I am also the ones that Tellator incorporated into himself.”
Jerd was nodding slowly. Her eyes were traveling over his face in a way that made Reyn uncomfortable. Sylve spoke sharply. “And Amarinda? Did she also choose a stone ancestry for herself ?”
Rapskal’s eyes shifted from Jerd to Sylve. He measur
ed her and her reaction. Something in him went still before he replied diffidently, “She chose other talents for herself. Some things, as you know now, were not stored in the stone. Those she learned from her masters, and in time became a master herself. But some things she chose to learn from stone.
“Body skills are much easier to learn that way. Tumbling and juggling and sculpting, for example, are easier to master if one knows how the body feels as it performs those maneuvers. The flexibility and muscle, of course, must be gained from practice. They are much easier to achieve if one remembers the experience of having done it before. One feels confidence that it can be done. Swordsmanship, for instance.”
“And other physical skills?” Jerd asked him with a knowing smile.
He grinned back at her. “There are some topics that a man can never know too much about. Or a woman.”
Jerd shivered. She glanced at Sylve, and then asked him, “Could any woman be Amarinda? If I went to her memory stones, could not I learn her days with Tellator? And her nights?”
He looked at her consideringly. “You might,” he admitted. He started to say something more, than paused as if he had forgotten it. A line divided his brows, and for a moment he looked tragically young to Reyn. As if he might next crumple forward and weep like a child.