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.
