Robin Hobb - City of Dragons

“Hey. Come back.” Carson shook his shoulder gently. “When you get that look on your face, it bodes no good for either of us. It’s done, Sedric. A long time over and gone. Whatever it was. Let it go and stop tormenting yourself.”

“I was such a fool.” Sedric shook his head. “I deserve to be tormented.”

Carson shook his head, and a touch of impatience came into his voice. “Well, then stop tormenting me. When I see that look on your face, I know you’re thinking about Hest.” He paused suddenly, as if he’d been on the verge of saying something and then changed his mind. After a moment, he said with forced cheer, “So. What brought him to mind this time?”

“I’m not missing him, Carson, if that’s what you think. I’ve no desire to return to him. I’m more than content with you. I’m happy.”

Carson squeezed his shoulder again. “But not so happy that you can stop thinking of Hest.” He tipped his head and looked at him quizzically. “I don’t think he treated you well. I don’t understand his hold on you.”

Sedric shook his head as if he could shake all memories of Hest out of his mind. “It’s hard to explain him. He’s very charismatic. He gets what he wants because he truly believes he deserves it. When something goes wrong, he never takes the blame as his own. He puts it on someone else, and then just steps away from whatever the disaster was. It always seemed to me that Hest could just step away from anything terrible that happened, even if he caused it. Whenever it seemed that he would finally have to face the consequences of what he did, some other passage would suddenly open for him.” His voice ran down. Carson’s dark eyes were on him, trying to understand.

“And that fascinates you still?”

“No! At the time, it always seemed as if he had extraordinary luck. Now, when I look back, I see him as being very good at shifting the blame. And I let him. Often. So I’m not really thinking of Hest. I’m thinking about my life back in Bingtown, about who he made me… or rather who I let myself become.” Sedric shrugged. “I’m not proud of who I became when I was with Hest. Not proud of things I planned to do, or the ones I did. But in some ways, I’m still that person. And I don’t know how to change.”

Carson gave him a sideways glance, his smile broad. “Oh, you’ve changed. Trust me on that, laddie. You’ve changed quite a bit.”

They’d reached the eaves of the forest. The bare-leaved trees at the outer edges did little to break the incessant rain. There were evergreens a bit higher up the hill, offering more shelter, but there were more dead and fallen branches for firewood here.

Carson halted near a grove of ash trees. He produced two long leather straps, each with a loop at the end. Sedric took his, muffling a sigh. He reminded himself of two things: when he worked, he did stay warmer, and when he kept pace with Carson, he gained more respect for himself. Be a man, he told himself, and he shook the strap out into a loop on the ground as Carson had taught him. Carson had already begun to gather faggots and place them on the strap. The big man sometimes cracked a branch over his thigh to break it down to a manageable size. Sedric had tried that; it left remarkable bruises on him, ones that made Carson wince just to look at. He hadn’t attempted it since then.

“I need to come back with the axe and take down a couple of those fir trees. Big ones. We can fell them and let them dry for a season, and next year we’ll chop them up and have some good long-burning logs. Something more substantial than these, something that will burn all night.”

“That would be good,” Sedric agreed without enthusiasm. More backbreaking work. And thinking about firewood for next year made him realize that next year he’d probably still be here. Still living in a cottage, eating meat cooked over a fire, and wearing Sa knew what for clothes. And the year after. And the year after. Would he spend his life here, grow old here? Some of the other keepers had said that the changes the dragons were putting them through would make them into Elderlings, with vastly extended life spans. He glanced at the fish-fine scaling on the back of his wrists. One hundred years here? Living in a little cottage and caring for his eccentric dragon. Would that be his life? Once Elderlings had been legendary creatures to him, elegant and lovely beings who lived in wondrous cities full of magic. The Elderling artifacts that the Rain Wilders had discovered as they dug up the buried cities had been mystical: jewels that gleamed with their own light, and perfume gems, each with its own sweet scent. Carafes that chilled whatever was put into them. Jidzin, the magical metal that woke to light at a touch. Wonderful wind chimes that played endlessly varying harmonies and tunes. Stone that held memories that one could share by touching… so many amazing things had belonged to the Elderlings. But they were long gone from the world. And if Sedric and the other keepers were to be their heirs, they would indeed be the poor branch of the family, allied with dragons who could scarcely fly and bereft of Elderling magic. Like the crippled dragons of this generation, the Elderlings they created would be poor and stunted things, eking out an existence in primitive surroundings.

A gust of wind shook down a shower of drops from the naked tree branches above him. He brushed them off his trousers with a sigh. The cloth had worn thin, and the cuffs were frayed to dangling threads. “I need new trousers.”

Carson reached out a calloused hand to rumple his wet hair. “You need a hat, too,” he observed casually.

“And what shall we make that out of? Leaves?” Sedric tried to sound amused rather than bitter. Carson. He did have Carson. And would not he rather live in a primitive world with Carson than in a Bingtown mansion without him?

“No. Bark.” Carson sounded pragmatic. “If we can find the right sort of tree. There was one merchant in Trehaug who used to beat tree bark into fibers and then weave them. She treated some of them with pitch to make them waterproof. She made hats and I think cloaks. I never bought one, but given our circumstances now, I’m ready to try anything. I don’t think I’ve a whole shirt or pair of trousers left to my name.”

“Bark,” Sedric echoed gloomily. He tried to imagine what such a hat would look like and decided he’d rather go bareheaded. “Maybe Captain Leftrin can bring fabric back from Cassarick. I think I can manage with what I’ve got until then.”

“Well, we’ll have to, so it’s good that you think we can.” Such a remark from Hest would have been scathing sarcasm. From Carson, it was shared amusement at the hardships they would endure together.

For a moment they both fell silent, musing. Carson had amassed a substantial bundle of wood. He pulled the strap tight around the sticks and hefted it experimentally. Sedric added a few more sticks to his and regarded the pile with dread. The bundle was going to be heavy, and the sticks would poke him and his back would ache tonight. Again. And here came Carson with more sticks, helpfully increasing the size of his pile. Sedric tried to think of something positive. “But when Leftrin returns from Cassarick, won’t he be bringing us more clothing in his supplies?”

Carson added the sticks he’d brought to the stack and wrapped the strap around it. He spoke as he tightened it. “A lot will depend on if the Council members give him all the money they owe him. I expect they’ll drag their feet. Even if they pay him, what he can bring back is going to be limited to what he can buy in Cassarick and maybe in Trehaug. Food will come first, I think. Then supplies like tar and lamp oil and candles and knives and hunting arrows. All the things that help us survive on our own. Blankets and fabric and suchlike will come last. Woven goods are always dear in Cassarick. No grazing lands in the swamps, so no sheep for wool. These meadows are one reason Leftrin was so excited about putting in an order for livestock from Bingtown. But we can expect livestock to take months to arrive, and Tarman will have to make a return trip for them.”