by Hobb, Robin
The dragon did not seem to hear her. “And there were soaking pools, some just of hot water and others with a layer of oil on top. Oh, to soak in steaming water again. And then emerge to wallow in a sand basin, and then to have servants groom the sand away and leave my scales gleaming . . .”
“There is nothing like that left intact,” Thymara said quietly. “But at least we can get out of the wind there.”
The dragon soldiered on, walking silently now, and Thymara matched her pace. They turned a corner into a street brightly lit with memories, but if Sintara were aware of them, she made no sign. She strode through the night bazaar of incense and freshly cooked meats and breads, and Thymara followed her.
The reality of the dragon made the ghosts seem paler in comparison. Their gaiety seemed frail and false, an echo of a past that had never lasted into a future. Whatever they celebrated, they did so with futility. Their world had not lasted, and their windblown laughter seemed to mock them.
“Here,” Sintara said, and she turned to mount a long flight of shallow stairs.
Thymara ascended beside her in silence. Then, when they were within two steps of the top, the entire frame of the doorway suddenly burst into golden light. A welcome of music and fragrance swelled out as the remnants of the doors creaked back on their hinges. Thymara thought it a part of the stone’s illusion, but the dragon halted and looked about in wonder.
“It remembers!” she said suddenly. “The city remembers me. Kelsingra remembers the dragons!” She lifted her head high and suddenly bugled a clear call. The sound echoed in the chamber before her, and in response, light flooded it.
Thymara was transfixed by wonder. It was light, real light, not a memory of bygone times, and as she watched in awe, the second and then the third story of the buildings lit, and golden light flowed like beacons from the windows. As if they were twigs catching a flame, the buildings to either side suddenly responded as well. Light flooded and filled the Square of the Dragons. Thymara turned to look back on it. The statues that edged the square flushed with color, and for the first time she realized that the colored tiles that had seemed random when she walked over them were actually a mosaic of a great black dragon.
In the distance, Thymara heard a dragon trumpet. Heeby, it would be Heeby in flight with Rapskal on her back, looking for them. Well, they would definitely know where Sintara was, she decided. No need to wait outside in the wind. She followed her dragon into the welcoming chamber.
Wonder upon wonder. The mosaics on the walls, a vista of rolling plains, glowed with light and warmth. Thymara stared all around at a room that had obviously been built to host not a single dragon but a score of them. The ceiling soared overhead, a permanently blue sky with a dazzling yellow sun in the center. The pillars that supported the distant ceiling were textured like the trunks of trees. The floor beneath their feet was dusty, but it, too, gave off warmth that Thymara could feel through the broken soles of her boots. The fragrance grew stronger as they progressed into the room, but pleasantly so. In the far corner, a human-sized staircase led upward to other chambers. The music beckoned, a sound like water over a pebbly streambed, luring them into the next room.
“Sweet Sa,” she exclaimed as she entered. The air of the room was warming, and the humidity was increasing. A row of a dozen immense troughs interrupted the floor of the chamber, each with a slanting ramp leading down into it. And one was filling slowly with steaming water . . .
Sintara did not hesitate but walked straight down into the rising water and arranged herself with her chin propped on a stone pillar set at precisely the correct height to cradle her head above the water that already lapped around her knees. She gave an immense sigh. “Warm,” she said and sank into it and closed her eyes.
Thymara watched, caught between wonder and envy as the water filled the basin until it lapped over the dragon’s back. “Sintara?” she queried cautiously, but the dragon gave no indication of being aware of her. She desperately wanted to ask permission to join the dragon. In all her life, she had never seen such a quantity of clean, heated water. In her home in Trehaug, they had had a bath hammock, a tightly woven “tub” that in the summer was filled with rainwater and warmed by the sun. But she had never seen or even imagined anything like this bath for a dragon. There seemed to be plenty of room in it, and as she studied it, she noticed that a set of human-sized steps led down into it from the far corner. Oh. Now she “remembered” it: there had been a force of Elderlings who had lived on the premises and provided scrubbing and grooming services to dragons who required it. Once, there would have been a stock of brushes and oils and other grooming tools in the collapsed wooden cupboards along the wall.
Thymara looked down at her well-worn clothing. Well, more dirty than just well worn, she admitted. When one was reduced to little more than one set of clothes, washing them and having them dry before they were required again was a bit difficult, especially in winter. But in this large warm room, they would probably dry quickly. The temptation was suddenly too much to resist.
She walked swiftly to the steps, set her boots to one side, and dropped her cloak beside them. Her “stockings” were no more than rags to wrap her feet. She removed them carefully. They were much better than nothing. She pulled her long tunic off carefully, working her wings through the opening cut in the back. The tunic joined her trousers in a pile. She sat on the edge of the warm tiles and put her feet into the water.
And swiftly snatched them back. The water was hot, far hotter than any she’d ever bathed in. She looked at the comatose dragon. Sintara seemed to be enjoying it. Thymara ventured her foot into the water again. Yes, hot, surprisingly hot, but not unbearably so. She eased her feet down one step and slowly entered the water. It took time but eventually she was immersed up to her chin. She opened her wings and felt the heat of the water touch them. And ease them. Thymara had always accepted that they ached slightly, all the time, as her hands and feet ached when they were cold. The cessation of that constant pain was a blessing. She leaned back then, wetting her hair, and then reaching up to loosen it in the water. It felt so good. She ducked her head under and rubbed her face, and then repeated it until her skin squeaked under her fingers. Clean. Clean was such a miracle of simple pleasure. She rubbed her hands together, digging the dirt out from under her nails. Then she leaned back with only her face out of the water. Paradise.
The hot water was rapidly sucking all ambition out of her. She just wanted to rest her head on the edge of the pool and relax in the warmth. It had been so long since she had felt completely warm. She forced herself to think about putting on filthy clothes over her clean body in the morning; that roused her to activity. She pulled her garments in, soaking them and then pummeling them in the hot water. A brown cloud of dirt tinged the clean water around them, and she glanced fearfully toward Sintara. She had not known her clothes were that dirty! Would the dragon be offended? But Sintara seemed beyond feeling anything, so Thymara hastily finished her laundering. She squeezed as much water as she could out of the clothes, wiped an area of the heated floor clean of dust with her foot wraps, washed them out again, and then spread all her clothes out flat on the warm tiles. She had just finished arranging them and was slipping back into the hot water when she heard a sound. Her heart skipped a beat before she decided it was the intrusion of memory into her mind.
She was halfway back into the hot water when Rapskal exclaimed happily, “You’re naked!”
Thymara leaped out of the water with a splash and snatched up her tunic, turning her back on him to pull it over her head. It got caught on her wings and she struggled with it endlessly before she was covered. “What are you doing here?” she demanded over her shoulder, realizing how ridiculous a question it was even as she asked it.
“Looking for you and Sintara! To help you, remember? You said she was drowning, but she doesn’t look too worried right now. How did you do all this? Seems like half the city is lit up! I bet they’re boiling with curiosity across the r
iver! And look at all the water. Where’s it coming from? Heeby! Heeby, wait, darling, what are you doing? How did you do that?”
For the red dragon had proceeded to enter a bath trough. The hot, scented water had already begun to flow into it. Heeby was settling into it with a happy wriggle when Rapskal shouted, “Hey, wait for me!” and began to strip.
“You can’t do that in front of me!” Thymara exclaimed, offended, but he only turned and grinned at her.
“You did it first. And I’m cold to the bone.” He dropped his clothes to the floor and jumped directly into the water. “Oh, yowtch, that’s hot! How do you stand it?” He’d lifted himself on the side and was staring at her over the edge.
“Go in slowly,” she suggested and turned away from him.
Sintara had opened her eyes and was regarding them all with annoyance. Rapskal stayed as he was, letting the slowly rising water come up on him. He moved to the end of the dragon bath to be closer to Thymara and hung on the edge of it, cheeks red and dark hair dripping.
“So, hey, Sintara. Hey, big girl? Look over here at me, princess! How’d you do it? How did you light up the city? Heeby and I been here before, lots of times. It never lit up or made a bath for us. At least, not until now.”
Sintara swiveled her head on her chin rest to regard them. Thymara was shocked at how he had addressed her dragon but sensed, too, that Sintara did not mind being called “princess.” Perhaps he could not tell how much his words had pleased the dragon, but Thymara could. She, Sintara, had wakened the city when Heeby had not. Perhaps that was why she deigned to answer him.
“Perhaps the city was awaiting the return of a real dragon. I simply told the city what I wanted. It’s how Kelsingra works. All the Elderling cities worked this way. These cities were built for the convenience of dragons. To lure us to come and spend time among the Elderlings. If they did not please us, why would we have bothered?” Her eyes spun in lazy pleasure and slowly she lidded them, leaving them all to think about that.
“Look at your wings!” Thymara exclaimed suddenly and walked over to gaze down on her dragon.
“One is weaker. It will grow.” Sintara sounded annoyed to be reminded of the flaw.
“They are growing now. Like the dragons all grew when they stayed the one night on the warm place on our journey here. They are . . . extraordinary! The webbing, the veins . . . I don’t know what to call it, but it is thicker already and the colors are richer. I can almost see them grow like vines overtaking a tree. All your colors are brighter, everywhere, but your wings are incredible! If one is weaker, I cannot see it.”
“The weakness was very small. Probably apparent only to me.”
Sintara stood suddenly and opened her wings. She flexed them once, showering the room with droplets of water. “Yes. They are stronger!” The dragon sounded very pleased. She sank down into the water again and this time she left her wings half opened as if to soak them better. “This was what I needed.”
“I wonder if it is what all the dragons need?” Thymara ventured. She had glanced over at Heeby. Rapskal’s scarlet dragon was smaller and rounder than Sintara and always had been. Her legs had always seemed stumpy to Thymara, and her tail shorter than it should have been. Sintara’s body was lizardlike while Heeby had always seemed square as a toad to Thymara. But now, as the little dragon stretched and lolled in the steaming water, her transformation was almost as stunning as Sintara’s. The web of veins in her red wings gleamed gold and shining black. It did not seem possible that her tail and legs had grown, but already she looked longer and more proportionate. Thymara spoke softly. “Is Heeby changing, too?”
“Oh, yes.” Rapskal seemed blasé about it. “Remember, we found one of those get-warm places when we were separated from the rest of you. She spent a lot of time in it. I think that’s why she got to fly before anyone else. Dragons like heat. Makes them grow.” He suddenly grabbed the edge of the pool and levered himself half out of it. “They’re not the only things that grow in hot water!”
“You’re so rude! Cover yourself!”
Rapskal glanced down, snickered, but obediently picked up his shirt and draped it around his waist, clutching it one-handed at his hip. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Your wings, Thymara! If you think Sintara’s wings changed in the hot water, well, you should see your own. Open them up, butterfly girl. Let’s see them all the way.”
Water was streaming down his chest and bare legs. Scales delineated the muscles of his chest and belly, but he seemed to have grown a lot of black hair as well. It was shocking to see him this way, but worse was that her memories of coupling with him shot suddenly through her, filling her body with a different sort of warmth. No. Not him, she reminded herself sternly. I didn’t couple with him. I’ve never mated with anyone! Yet the thought could not negate her knowledge of it, nor cool the lust in her belly. She backed away from him, only a step, but he halted where he stood and his grin grew wider.
“I won’t touch you,” he promised. “I just want to see your wings.”
She turned, her face burning.
“Open them up, then,” he commanded, and she did. Water droplets had been trapped in their folds and slid down when she opened them. They tickled and she shivered. Rapskal laughed. “That’s amazing. The colors flickered. Oh, Thymara. So beautiful. I wish you could see them for yourself. You would never feel shy of them again, never cover them again. Move them, just a little, would you?”
She was tantalizingly aware of him standing behind her. She distracted herself by fanning her wings slightly and was startled at what she felt. Strength. And increased size, as if they had only been waiting to unfold. She fanned them again. Flight. Was it possible now? She stifled the thought. Sintara had told her she would never fly. Why did she torment herself?
Rapskal had come closer. She felt his breath on her back, sensed his closeness. “Please,” he said quietly. “I know I said I wouldn’t touch, but can I please just touch your wings?”
Her wings. What was the harm? “Very well,” she said quietly.
“Open them wide, please.”
She spread them and felt him take hold of the ribbed end of one. It was oddly like holding his hand; the sensation was rather like her fingers. He spoke softly. “I wish you could see this. This line here is all gold.” He traced a line with his finger, and she shivered at the touch. “And behind it is a blue like the sky right before it gives way to night. Here, there is white that gleams almost silver.” He stretched her wing wider and very lightly drew his finger from her shoulder to the very tip. She shivered again, but with heat, not chill.
An odd thought intruded. He was using both hands.
She snapped her wings shut and spun around. His shirt was on the floor. “Oops.” He grinned.
“Not funny!” she objected.
His grin grew wider, and as she turned away, she could not keep an answering smile from her face. It was funny. Rude, but funny. So very Rapskal. But it also made her uncomfortable. She walked away from him.
“Where are you going?”
She didn’t know. “Upstairs. I want to see what else is here.”
“Wait for me!”
“You should stay with the dragons.”
“No reason to. They’re both asleep.”
“At least put on your trousers.”
He laughed again, but she refused to look at him. She didn’t wait but returned to the first chamber they had entered and walked over to the stairs. It was cooler in this room compared to the bathing chamber, and goose bumps popped up on her back under her damp tunic. She was still hungry. She pushed that thought from her mind. Nothing she could do about it tonight.
The stairs wound around a pillar and led to an upper chamber that was sized to humans and not as elaborately decorated. There was a main room with a scatter of collapsed and unidentifiable furniture remains in it. The ceiling glowed softly, illuminating the room evenly. A single window looked out over the Square of the Dragons. Thymara lost a few mo
ments staring out of it. Rapskal was right. Whatever Sintara had done to light this building had spread. The windows of the adjacent buildings gleamed with light, and throughout the city, other random structures seemed to have wakened. Some were outlined with lights even though their windows were dark. Had the Elderlings used light to decorate as some cities used paint or carving? Random buildings had awakened even in the distance, even as far back as the cliffs at the far edge of the city. Lights burned as if there were people there. It was a sight both cheering and unnerving.
“I told you so. This city isn’t dead. It’s waiting for us, for dragons and Elderlings, to wake it and bring it back to life.” He had come up the stairs quietly and stood behind her.
“Maybe,” she conceded and turned to follow Rapskal as he explored. He came to a tall door. It was wood, but it had been decorated with panels of metal with shapes beaten into it. Perhaps that was why it had survived. He opened it and wondered aloud, “Where does this go?”
Thymara followed him as he entered a wide corridor. More doors, similar to the one he had just opened, lined the walls. “Are they locked?” Rapskal wondered and pushed on one. It swung open silently and he hesitated on the threshold.
“What’s in there?” she asked, hurrying to join him.
“Someone’s room,” he said, but still he did not enter.
Thymara stood on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. Someone’s room indeed. So many of the houses she had seen were empty, as if the inhabitants had packed and left, while others held only splinters and shards of furniture. This was different. There was a desk and a chair, of dark wood, but coated with something very shiny and inset with colors. She had once seen a very small and expensive box from Trehaug that was finished like that. A tall shelf in the corner matched the desk, and on the shelves there were containers of glass and pottery, most of them blue but a few orange and silver ones for contrast.
“Look. A bed made of stone. Who would want a bed made of stone?” Rapskal walked boldly into the room, and Thymara followed shyly. She felt like an intruder here, as if the narrow door in the opposite wall might open at any time and the room’s inhabitant emerge to demand what they were doing here. She moved to the shelf and found a comb and a brush, seemingly made of glass. The bristles of the brush were stiff when she poked at them.