Blood of Dragons - Страница 26

She looked at him, surprised. He mistook it for confusion.

‘I guess your mind was elsewhere. She says she keeps having dreams about a silver well. She’s wandered through the city looking for it, but hasn’t seen anything like what she dreamed. She thinks she’s remembering something that Mercor knows about. She says he mentioned something about the silver wells of Kelsingra, a long time ago when we first began our journey here. She wants to talk to him but she’s like the rest of us. Since her dragon took flight, he doesn’t have a lot of time for her. And she said another odd thing. She says it feels like he avoids the topic, as if it makes him uncomfortable.’

‘Sintara spoke to me once of a silver well. It seemed very important to her. But she said her memories of it were fragmented.’ She put the words out casually.

‘The well isn’t silver,’ Tats said slowly. He gave her a sideways glance as if he expected her to mock him. ‘I dreamed of it last night. The structure around it was old and very fancy. As much wood as stone, as if it had been built at the very beginning of the city. Inside there was this mechanism … I couldn’t see it well. But when you cranked up the bucket from the depths, it was full of silvery stuff. Thicker than water. Dragons can drink it and love it. But I had the feeling it was dangerous to humans.’

‘Humans? Or Elderlings?’

He looked at her for a long moment. ‘I’m not sure. In the dream I knew I had to be very careful of it. But was I dreaming it as if I were a human or an Elderling?’

It was her turn to sigh. ‘Sometimes I don’t like what this place is doing to me. Even without touching memory-stones, I have dreams that don’t quite belong to me. I turn a corner and just for an instant, I feel like I’m someone else, with a whole lifetime of memories and friends and expectations for the day. I pass a house and want to visit a friend, one I’ve never had.’

Tats was nodding. ‘Those standing stones, the big ones in the circle in that plaza, they remind me of different cities when I pass them. You know, the other Elderling cities …’

She shook her head at him. ‘No. But I walk through a memory of a market and suddenly I want a fish cake spiced with that hot red oil. And then, just as abruptly, I’m me again and I know that I’m sick of fish, with or without red oil.’

‘The memories tug at me, too. I don’t like it—’ Tats halted suddenly. He took her arm, pulling her to a stop.

Down by the river, work progressed under Carson’s supervision. A crude wooden dock made of logs had been roped to some of the old support columns. The river tugged at it and grey water bulged and flowed over the end of it. Harrikin, stripped to worn trousers and securely roped against the current, was in the water, trying to force one log into alignment with another. Carson was shouting directions to him as he kept tension on a line tied to the opposite end of the timber. Lecter, muscles bunching with effort, crouched over a log on the shore, slowly turning a drill to put a hole through it. Not far away, Alum was smoothing straight pieces of sapling into dowel. The sound rode thin on the spring wind. Nortel, ribs bandaged from a log-setting mishap earlier in the week, crouched on the dock with a mallet and pegs, waiting to fasten the log. It was cold, wet, dangerous work. And it was Tats’s assignment for the afternoon. He tugged at her hand and she met his gaze. ‘I’ve heard what Rapskal says. That we have to plunge ourselves into the city’s memories if we are to learn how to live here as Elderlings. But I also remember all the warnings I heard in Trehaug. What Leftrin told us before he left, that lingering too long near memory-stone can drown you. That you can lose your own life in remembering someone else’s.’

Thymara was silent for a moment. Tats had put a precise finger on her own fear, the one that she didn’t like to admit. ‘But we are Elderlings. It’s different for us.’

‘Is it? I know Rapskal says that, but is it? Did the Elderlings prize having their own lives, or did they grow up so saturated in other people’s experiences that they didn’t realize what was theirs and what they’d absorbed? I like being me, Thymara. I want to still be Tats, no matter how long I live and tend my dragon. And I want to share those years with Thymara. I don’t need to soak you in someone else’s life when I’m with you.’ He paused, letting her feel the sting of that little barb. Then he added, ‘My turn for a question. Are you living your life, Thymara? Or avoiding it by living someone else’s?’

He knew. She hadn’t confided in him about the memory columns and her visits there with Rapskal. But somehow he knew. A deep blush heated her face. As her silence became longer, the hurt in his eyes deepened. She tried to tell herself that she’d done nothing wrong, that his hurt was not her fault. He spoke while she struggled to find words.

‘It’s pretending, Thymara.’ His voice was low but not gentle. ‘It’s not plunging into this life in Kelsingra. It’s letting go of now, and living the past, a past that will never return. It’s not even really living. You don’t make decisions there, and if the consequences become too dark, you can run away. You take on a style of thinking, and when you come back to this world, it sways you. But worst of all is, while you are swimming in memories, what are you not doing here? What experiences are you missing, what chances pass you by? A year from now, what will you say about these seasons, what will you remember?’

She was moving from embarrassed to angry. Tats had no right to rebuke her. He might think she was doing something foolish, but she hadn’t hurt anyone with it. Well, only him, and only his feelings. And wasn’t that partially his own fault, for caring about such things?

He knew she was getting angry. She saw how he tightened his shoulders and heard his voice deepen a notch. ‘When you’re with me, Thymara … if you ever decide to be with me … I won’t be thinking of anyone else except you. I won’t call you by someone else’s name, or do something to you because it’s what someone else liked a long, long time ago. When you finally decide to let me touch you, I’ll be touching you. Only you. Can Rapskal say that to you?’

Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Then, from the riverbank, Carson shouted, ‘Dragon fight! Keepers, get down here!’

She spun away from Tats and ran, as much toward danger as away from it.

‘Why do you hate me?’

She gave two final snips with her shears before she spoke, then ran her slender fingers through his hair, loosening it as she checked for any more mats or tangles. It sent a shiver up his back and he shuddered to cast it off. Another woman might have smiled at his reaction. Chassim’s eyes remained cold and distant. She replied with a question of her own. ‘Why do you suppose I hate you, dragon-man? Have I treated you with anything less than respect? Been less than attentive and subservient to you in any way?’

‘Your hatred shimmers around you like heat from a fire,’ he replied honestly. She stepped away from him to fling handfuls of his damp hair out of a barred window. That task done, she closed the window and then folded down the elaborate wooden cover. Even though the cover was painted white and bore images of birds and flowers, it still plunged the room into gloom. Selden sighed at the loss of sunlight: his body craved it after the long months of deprivation.

The woman halted, her hand on the screen. ‘I have displeased you and now you will tell my father.’ It was not a question.

He was startled. ‘No. I just miss the daylight. I was kept for months inside a heavy tent, and journeyed here in the hold of a ship. I’ve missed fresh air and daylight.’

She moved away from the window without opening the cover. ‘Why look on what you cannot have?’

He wondered if that was why she had draped herself, head to foot, in a shapeless white shroud. Only the square of her face was visible; he had never seen a woman attired so and suspected it was her own invention. All Rain Wilds folk went veiled when they visited other places. Even when they went to Bingtown, where folk should have known better, their scales and wattles drew curious eyes and invited fear or mockery. But a Rain Wilds woman would have veiled her face as well, and her gloves and robes would have been rich with embroidery and beading. Her garments would have displayed her wealth and power. This woman was swathed as plainly as if her body had been wrapped for a pauper’s grave. Her bared face, though fair, was a window into the anger and resentment she felt. Almost he wished she had hidden those eyes from him.

Yet the fury in her eyes had not reached the gentleness of her touch. He lifted his hands to his hair and ran his fingers through it. She had left it to his shoulders. It felt light and soft, and for the first time in months his fingers moved freely through it. Such a wonder to be entirely clean and warm. She had trimmed his nails, hands and feet, and scrubbed his back and legs and arms with a soft brush until his skin blushed pink and his scaling shone. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged with salves and clean linen. It had felt odd and uncomfortable to be groomed as if he were a prize animal, but he had neither the strength nor the will to resist her. Even now, wrapped in soft blankets and enthroned before a fire, he felt it took all his strength just to hold his head upright. He gave up and let it loll back on the cushions. He could feel the drag of his eyelids. He struggled to stay awake: he needed to think, to put together the pieces of information they had given him.