Rain Wilds Chronicles (198 page)

Now there was a frightening thought.
He looked around at
the keepers, marking how they had drawn near to hear her words.
All these
youngsters with magic. What would they do with it? Use it wisely?
He shook his head at such a
foolish hope.

Malta had stood, and Reyn had trailed her as she approached them. Her lips were
chewed and chapped, her hair like straw. The babe in her arms mewed endlessly. “Thank you,” she
said. “For all the ways you have tried to help us, thank you.” Leftrin did not doubt her sincerity,
but pure weariness and unadulterated sorrow sucked the heart from her words. She might have been
thanking Alise for a cup of tea instead of thanking her for risking her sanity.

Leftrin stepped back, holding Alise by the shoulders. “Bellin!” he barked suddenly.
“Take her down to the ship. Get a hot meal into her and see that she goes to sleep in my stateroom.
I want her out of the city for a night at least.” As Bellin approached, he looked at the well with
new eyes. “I'll clear it,” he promised her again.

Alise muttered a protest, but she did not resist as the deckhand took her arm and
led her away. As they walked away from him, Leftrin heard Bellin's husky words. “Oh, Alise. If only
it can be. If only it can be.”

T
he “fishing” consumed the rest of the
day. The line was long and the ghost light of the jewelry barely enough to see anything by. Sedric
took a fruitless turn at the effort. A hundred times, a thousand times, the hook slid past the
bucket's handle without catching on it. Keeper and crewmen, all took turns. All failed. When Sylve
finally hooked it, she gave a single whoop of excitement.

“Keep it taut!” Carson barked at her, but he grinned as he said it. Everyone
gathered in a circle around her held their breaths. The Elderling girl grasped the line firmly,
holding the tension while Carson slowly took up the slack on the other side of the pulley. “Got it,”
he told her, and very slowly she let go of the rope. She backed away from the well's edge and then
stood up, arching her back. Lecter came without asking to take up the line behind Carson. “Slow and
steady,” Carson told him, and he nodded.

All saw the strain as the two men pulled. The rope creaked, and Leftrin came to add
his strength. “Stuck in the dried muck,” Carson guessed breathlessly and Leftrin grunted in
agreement. The rope creaked more loudly, and then Sylve gave a small shriek as all three men
abruptly stumbled back.

“You've lost it!” she cried. But she was wrong. The line swung slowly as it took the
weight of the bucket in full.

“Keep the tension on it.” Carson advised them. “Go slow. We don't know how strong
the bail is on the bucket. Try not to let the bucket touch the wall; it might jar it loose. Then
we'd have it all to do over again.” Sedric watched the keepers trade their grips, hand over hand, as
the ancient bucket slowly rose toward the surface.

The sun was toward the horizon when the flame jewels finally emerged and the handle
of the bucket was seized with eager hands. “It's plain damn luck that line held,” Leftrin exclaimed
as they lifted it over the lip and onto the ground. The keepers crowded round. It was, as Rapskal
had speculated, large enough for a dragon to drink from, lovingly crafted from dark wood lined with
beaten metal.

“Silver!” Tats had gasped.

Sedric stared at it, unable to speak. Carson came to rest a hand on his shoulder and
stare with the others.

It was obvious the bucket had long rested at an angle at the bottom of the well.
There was a slope of packed silt in the bottom of the bucket. Draining away from it and gathering
itself into an uneven puddle on the bottom was Silver. Sedric stared at it, his breath caught in his
chest. Yes. He understood now what Mercor had said about the stuff, that it was in the blood of
dragons. For that was where he had seen it before.

The unwelcome memory burst into his mind. He had crouched in the darkness, full of
greed and hope, and cut the dragon's neck and caught the running blood. She had not been Relpda
then, his gleaming copper queen. She had been a muddy brown animal dying on the riverbank, and his
only thought had been that if he took her blood and sold it, he could buy himself a new life in a
distant land with Hest. He had trapped her blood in a bottle and left her to her fate. But he
remembered now how the dragon's blood had swirled and drifted in the glass bottle, scarlet on
silvery red, always moving before his eyes.

Yes. There was Silver in dragon's blood, for he watched it now as it stirred and
moved like a live thing seeking an escape. Such a shallow puddle to evoke such awe in all of them!
It drew itself together in a perfect circle and stood up from the bottom of the old bucket like a
bubble of oil on water. There it remained in stillness, and yet silver in every variant of that
color moved and swirled through it. “It's beautiful,” Thymara breathed. She stretched out a hand,
and Tats caught her by the wrist.

Malta and Reyn stood side by side. The babe fell suddenly silent.

“It's deadly,” Tats reminded them all. The young keeper looked around at the circle
of faces that hemmed the bucket and its contents. “What do we do with it?”

“For now? Nothing,” Leftrin declared sternly. He met Malta's stare with one of his
own. “We brought it up. There's Silver down there, though this is scarce enough to wet a dragon's
tongue. What little we have here, we save until the dragons' return, in hopes they can use it to
save the baby. Do any disagree?” His eyes roved the assembled keepers.

Sylve looked shocked as she said, “What else would we do with it? All of us want the
young prince to live!”

Sedric concealed his surprise. Prince. So they thought of the sickly child, and so
they had risked all for him. Leftrin cleared his throat. “Well then. I say we take no more risks
this evening, but set this aside and all of us go take some rest.”

S
he could feel the light fading from the
day. Her last day? Probably. Pain lived in her, a fire that did not warm her. Some little scavenger,
braver than most, tugged at her foot. Tintaglia twitched, a reflex that hurt now, and it scampered
off into the rushes to wait.
Not for long,
she thought.
Not for long.

She felt him land not far from her. The thud of a grown drake vibrated the mud
beneath her, and the wind of his wings washed over her. She smelled his musk and the fresh blood of
his latest kill. It stirred hunger in her, but suddenly even that sensation took too much effort.
Her body released her from that need. Nothing left to do but stop.

She felt him coming closer.

Not yet.
It was hard to focus the thought at him.
I've had enough of pain. Let me die before you take my memories.

Kalo came closer and she felt him stand over her. She braced herself. He would
finish her with one bite to the back of her neck, at the narrowest part, where her skull joined her
spine. It would hurt, but it would be quick. Better than feeling the ants that were already
investigating her wounds.

Blood from his jaws dripped down, falling on her face and on the side of her mouth
where her jaw hung ajar. She tasted it with the edge of her tongue. She drew a sharper breath. Sweet
torture. Her eyes flickered open.

The big drake stood over her. Light touched him, gleaming him black and then blue. A
riverpig hung limp from his jaws. The blood dripping onto the side of her mouth was warm. He had
brought his kill here to devour while he waited for her to die. The smell of it was intoxicating.
She moved her tongue in her mouth, tasting life one last time.

He dropped the pig right in front of her.

Eat that.

Her incredulous response had no words.

Eat that. If you eat, you might live. If you live, I might find
a mate worthy of my size.
Kalo wheeled away from her
. I will make a kill
for myself. I will be back.

She felt the sodden earth under her shudder as he bounded into flight. Stupid male.
She was too far gone for this. It was of no use. She opened her jaws slightly and the fresh blood
ran over her tongue. She shuddered. The dead pig was so close to her, reeking of warm blood. She
could not lift her head. But she could snake it along the ground on the length of her neck and open
her jaws wide enough to close them around its water-gleaming hindquarters. As she closed her jaws,
her teeth sank in and blood flowed into her mouth. She swallowed it, and her hunger woke like a
banked fire does to wind. She lunged, snapped, and tipped her head up to swallow. A short time
passed, and she lifted her head. She had dragged the pig closer with her first assault on it, and
now she could scissor off chunks and gulp them down. Blood and life flowed back into her.

Pain came with vitality. When the pig was gone, she shuddered all over. Small
creatures that had crept closer under cover of darkness suddenly scattered back into the rushes. She
rolled onto her belly and then gave a roar of pain as she lurched to her feet. She walked to the
river's edge and then out into the icy water. Ants and beetles that had come to feast on her wounds
were washed away in the water's chill rush. She felt the acid's hard kiss and hoped it would sear
some of the lesser wounds closed. She groomed awkwardly, too swollen and stiff to reach some of her
injuries. And the worst one that still held part of the damned Chalcedean arrow forced her wing out
at an odd angle. There was less pressure from it since the second piercing, and it seemed to be
draining still. She forced herself to move the wing and felt a rush of liquid down her side. She
screamed her fury at the pain to the night, and night birds lifted from the trees and a passing
troop of monkeys fled shrieking from the river's edge. Good to know that something still trembled in
fear of her. She staggered from the water and found a less trampled place among the tall rushes and
fern fronds and lay down to sleep.
Not to die. To sleep.

That's good to know.
His thought touched her before she
felt the wind of his wings sweep past her. He landed heavily, and the gelid earth quaked beneath
him. She smelled fresh blood on him; so he had made another kill and fed himself.

Tomorrow morning, I will hunt meat for you again.
He
stretched out his body casually beside hers and she knew a moment's unease. This was not the way of
dragons. No dragon brought down prey for another, nor did they sleep in proximity to each other. But
his eyes were closed and the stentorian breath of his sleep was regular. It was very strange to have
him so close to her.
Strange, but comforting,
she thought to herself,
and closed her eyes.

Day the 6th of the Plough Moon

Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders

From Erek Dunwarrow, former Keeper of the Birds,
Bingtown, presently residing in Trehaug

To Kerig Sweetwater, Master of the Bird Keepers'
Guild, Bingtown

 

Master Sweetwater, I send this sealed missive by a bird
released from my wife's own hand from her coop here in Trehaug. I write of a matter of great concern
to all of us.

I trust you to remember that I was your apprentice once,
and that from you I learned my standards of honesty and integrity. I am now married to Detozi
Dunwarrow, long known as an excellent and honorable bird keeper here in Trehaug.

This day as I approached Detozi's coop to deliver her
noon meal, I heard and then saw a bird in distress, a messenger bird tangled and hanging by his
foot. I climbed out into the smaller branches of the pathway and was able to cut him free. Imagine
my surprise to recognize a bird I had myself raised in Bingtown, one that was subsequently sent as
an unmated male to the coops in Cassarick. Although he was unbanded, I assure you that I recognize
this bird. In my care, he was known as Two-Toes and was unusual for hatching with a missing toe.
Even more shocking was when I confirmed what I recalled from the red lice plague. This bird had been
listed as one of those who had perished in the Cassarick coops.

The message fastened to his leg was not in a Guild tube,
the bird was badly fed and in poor health, and the careless manner of the fastening for the message
tube was responsible for his becoming entangled.

I believe he was sent from Cassarick to Trehaug
clandestinely, and only by happenstance have I intercepted him. Please do not suspect me of ill
doing; I have concealed the bird in my home until I can bring him back to full health. He deserves
that at least. I have preserved the illegal message packet unopened. I beg you to tell me to whom I
can entrust it here, for I fear to hand it over to the very villain who has constructed this
deceit.

If you find fault at all with how I have handled this, I
beg that all blame fall upon me and not Detozi. This is none of her doing, but only mine.

Erek Dunwarrow

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Blood Price

S
elden jerked awake to the pounding on the door. Shaking with alertness, he rolled from the divan to the floor and then, surprising himself, to his feet. He had no time to wonder if he was getting better or if his fear was overriding the weakness of his body. He heard the key turning in the lock.

“Lady Chassim, we must enter, on the Duke's orders. He wishes the dragon man brought to him immediately!” A man shouted harshly as the door swung open.

The lady herself strode from her bedchamber, an unfastened robe hastily thrown over her nightdress and a stone vase balanced over her head in her two hands. The set of her mouth said she would battle first and then find out why. Selden had taken to sleeping with a stick of kindling on the divan beside him. His was a feebler weapon than hers, but he gripped it tightly, intending to defend her to the death this time.

The two guardsmen fell back at the sight of her fury. “Lady, please, we are sorry to disturb you. Our orders are absolute. We must take the dragon man to the Duke. His need is dire and he cannot wait longer.”

Dizziness swooped through Selden's brain at those words, and the stick of wood tumbled from his nerveless hand. Here was death, barging in the door in the middle of the night. “I am not ready,” he said, to himself rather than the guardsmen.

“He is not!” Chassim snapped out her agreement. “Look at him. He coughs and spits gobs of yellow mucus. He has a fever, and his piss is the color of old tea. He is thin as an old horse, and he shakes when he tries to stand. You will take this to the Duke? Sick as he is, you will take this diseased creature into his presence? Woe betide you when you are his death!”

The younger of the two guardsmen blanched at her words, but the grizzled older guard only shook his head. He looked haggard, as if sleep had long abandoned him. “Lady, you know well we are dead if we return without him. Disobeying the Duke's order will only ensure that we are tortured to death along with our families. Stand back, Lady Chassim. I have no desire to handle you roughly, but I will take the dragon man now.”

Vase in hand, she stepped boldly between Selden and his abductors. She set her feet and he knew she would fight them. He staggered in a wobbly circle around her and into their arms before she realized what he was about. “Let us go quickly,” he told them. They seized him by the arms, and as they hastened him out the door, he called over his shoulder, “For a few days of respite, may Sa bless you.”

“Sa, the god that fucks itself,” the younger guardsman sneered.

The heavy vase landed with a crash on the floor just behind them. “You didn't lock her in?” the older man exclaimed in horror, but there came the sound of a slamming door. “Run back and lock it,” the guard told his junior in disgust. He kept his grip on Selden's upper arm and half dragged him until the youngster caught up with them to seize Selden's other arm.

“You sick like she said she was? Are we going to catch your disease?”

The younger guard huffed as he spoke, hurrying to keep up with the older one. His grip was not as tight as the older man's; plainly he didn't even want to touch Selden's scaled arm. In response, Selden went off into one of his coughing fits. Over and over, the air was squeezed from his lungs, and he struggled to take in each shallow breath.
Be calm,
he told himself.
Be calm.
He had discovered it was the only way to recover his breathing. He closed his eyes, went limp, and made them drag him as he put all his focus into trying to get breath back into his body.
Why?
he asked himself.
Why not die on the way and thwart the Duke?

But breathe he did, if shallowly, on the long haul that continued down several flights of stairs and then through an endless dim corridor. Lanterns in alcoves burned with low flames, and a short train of servants bearing armloads of bloodied sheets and basins met them and streamed past them in a nightmarish parade.

“How can he lose so much blood and still live?” the younger guard asked.

“Shut up! Someone hears you, that can be called treason,” the other barked.

They marched on in silence. At the end of that hall, they handed Selden off to two servants in spotless white robes. They escorted him, just as ungently, through grandly carved doors into an antechamber where two servants garbed in pale green seized him without comment. Another set of impressive doors and he entered the Duke's lavish bedchamber.

A death chamber,
he thought, for the smell of death permeated the room. The heavy drapes of the bed had been roped back and lamps burned everywhere. Incense burned as well, and Selden lowered his face, trying not to breathe the smoke that would choke him. The basket of bloody cloths by the grand bed smelled of rot, the red stains streaked with brown and black. The circle of healers around his bed looked terrified, as did the guards who stood watch behind them. At the end of the bed, his hands clasped behind him, stood Chancellor Ellik. He was elaborately and carefully attired as if he had readied himself for a special occasion. Did he hope to proclaim the Duke's death tonight?

The Duke himself sprawled on his back, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide. He pulled in breaths and pushed them out with a sound like a bellows. Selden thought him unconscious until the bony head on the ropy neck turned toward him. The man's pale blue eyes were framed in pools of red. “Laggards!” he croaked. His withered lips trembled as if he wished to utter a thousand curses. Then they firmed, and he said only, “The blood!”

They dragged Selden forward and one healer brought out a gleaming knife while others set a small table, a white cloth, and a polished silver basin ready. He fell to his knees, but they paid no more attention to him than if he were a chicken being prepared for the pot. His left hand was seized and drawn forward, and when his wrist was over the basin, the healer cut him with a deft and practiced flick of his knife. His blood, thin and bright red, ran freely. Selden watched dully as his life poured out of his body and into the bowl. It fell in spatters and then a tiny stream. The gathered healers watched it puddle and then pool in the basin.

“Enough!” one cried suddenly, and with an expert wrap and a tight twist, a white cloth bound his wrist. An assistant darted forward to seize his hand and hold it up over his head. Selden sagged helplessly in their grip. He longed to be taken away, to not witness any of this, but they held him there. Through stunned eyes he watched them pour his blood into a crystal goblet. No less than four healers assisted in the lifting of the Duke's head, while two held the goblet to his lips. Another one bade him, “Sip slowly, my lord.”

Breathe it in and choke on it,
Selden thought. But he did not. The Duke sipped his blood and then, gaining strength, lifted his own head and drank it. In horror, Selden watched color come back into the man's face. His tongue, grayish, lapped at the last scarlet drops in the glass. He drew in a deeper breath. Then he tried to sit up. He could not manage it, but there was unmistakably new strength in his voice as he commanded, “Bring him here! Directly to me!”

They dragged Selden to the bedside on his knees. One of the attendants forcibly bent his head down before the Duke while another snatched the cloth from his wrist. His face was pressed hard against the bedding. Selden struggled to draw breath, but no one cared. Someone grasped his arm firmly and twisted his wrist toward the Duke.

He felt the cracked lips brush his wrist in an obscene caress. The Duke's tongue was warm and wet as it probed for his wound, leaving chill slime as its track on his arm. Selden gave a low moan of disgust as the old man's mouth latched onto his wrist and suckled at his blood.

After a short time, he felt the Duke's clawlike hands fasten their own grip on his arm. The sucking grew stronger and an ache extended from his wrist to the inside of his elbow and then up his arm. When it reached his armpit, he thought he would faint with the pain. The world was spinning, and the distant cries of amazement and joy that reached his ears mocked his death.

E
llik watched in repugnance as the Duke suckled at the freak's arm.
Coward. What battle could not do, disease has done. It has made him a coward, and he will perform any act, no matter how demeaning, to hold death at bay.
Long practice kept his thoughts hidden. To any onlooker, he watched with concerned eyes as his beloved duke tried once more to snatch life from the jaws of death.

The Duke breathed through his nose as he sucked the blood, a panting breath that took on the same rhythm as coitus. The chancellor looked aside from the revolting display, expecting that at any moment the Duke would breathe his last. But as the slow moments dragged by and the breathing became stronger, he looked back at the man. Horror blossomed in him. Thin he still was, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks now. His eyes were half opened as if in pleasure, and they were brighter than Ellik had seen them in months.

“My lord. My lord, may it not displease you that I speak, but if you wish to preserve this creature's life so that you may have a later treatment of his blood, you must stop now.”

The healer who gripped the dragon man's wrist spoke in a timorous voice. His thumb was on the creature's pulse. The Duke paid no heed. The healer shot a frightened glance at the older man who grasped the dragon man's forearm. Now Ellik noticed that he, too, kept a monitoring thumb on the pulse point inside the creature's elbow. He met the younger man's stare, gave his head a tiny shake, and pressed down. The Duke sucked harder for three breaths and then abruptly lifted his head. His voice was stronger, thick with his drink as he demanded, “Has he died? The blood has stopped!”

“No, my duke, he is not dead, but he flutters close to it.” The healer spoke in a gentle voice full of deference. “Would you finish him now, or send him back to be fed up again for a later treatment?”

Greed and caution warred in the Duke's face. Abruptly, he pushed the thin wrist away from his mouth. “Take him away. Bid my daughter feed my fine blue cow fat again. Whatever Lady Chassim desires for him, she may have! See that she does all she can to bring him to where he can be bled again. Tell her this is my most ardent wish for her, if she would retain the goodwill of her duke.”

“My lord,” the healers chorused. Ellik saw concern in how quickly they bandaged the creature's wrist. Before they wrapped it, he glimpsed the deep purple bruising all around the wound. The Duke's teeth had left deep dents in the flesh.

“I will eat now,” the Duke declared.

As he leaned back into his pillows with a deep sigh of contentment, the room around him erupted into a frantic bustle of activity. A basket of clean cloths appeared as the used cloths were whisked way. Fresh bedclothes appeared, and the servants deftly folded away the soiled ones as the new ones were spread over him so that not even for a moment was he chilled. An array of musicians bearing their instruments trooped in and stood ready against the wall in case he should bid them to play. A narrow table was carried into the room, followed by an ant stream of servants bearing trays of all manner of food and drink. Water beaded on the outside of pitchers of iced wine while other pots steamed fragrantly with hot, mulled drinks. Covered platters stood shoulder to shoulder with steaming tureens. The array would have done credit to a banquet, and once again Ellik wondered where the hardy warrior he had once followed had gone.

The chancellor cleared his throat, and the Duke's eyes turned to him. He waited, watching the Duke count and measure the words he would give him, and Ellik knew he was on the cusp of losing all he had gained. “Your gift has pleased me,” the old man said at last.

Ellik waited ten heartbeats. The Duke said no more, and in that quiet, the chancellor read that he would not keep his promise to him. When a man hopes to live, he does not prepare a stronger man to take his place. It would be more important to him now that he coddle his daughter so that she might keep his blood cow alive. “Lady Chassim,” he had called her. He could not recall the Duke ever granting her both honorific and name when he had spoken of her before. Her status had changed in his mind. He would not again offer his daughter to Ellik. But the chancellor replied only, “Then I am very well pleased, my lord.” He lowered his eyes, so that no one might see how his mind seethed with fresh plans to take the reward he had earned.

F
or the first time in months, he had ordered his servants to open the heavy draperies that sealed all light from his chambers. From his bed, he had watched the pale gray light of dawn venture across his carpets and then the linens on his bed. He had opened his hand to that light, light he had believed would not touch him again, and smiled as it became the full gold of daylight. He was alive this morning. Still. And as he resolved that he would live, he'd issued his orders. The chief of his healers looked aghast.