Blood of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles #4)

Blood of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles #4) Page 102

‘I fear it may be too late for that. He’s so sincere in his belief that this is how Elderlings are meant to live, immersed in the memories of those who have gone before us.’

‘Perhaps he is.’ Tats had drained the last of his tea and looked reluctantly at the few uncoiled leaves in the bottom of his cup. ‘But I won’t give him up without trying.’

‘Nor I,’ she admitted, and she’d smiled at him. ‘Tats,’ she had added frankly, ‘you are just a good person. My father once told me that about you. “Solid to the core”, he said. I see what he meant.’

Her words flustered him more than any declaration of love could have done. He felt his face heat with a rare blush. ‘Come. Let’s get down to the well and see what is to be done there.’

He had not been too surprised to see that Leftrin and Carson were already at the well site and discussing methods of reaching the Silver. Carson had been pragmatic. ‘It doesn’t look like there’s much left blocking the way. Send someone down with an axe, and a hook and line. If the blockage won’t come up, chop at it until it goes down.’

‘Send who?’ Leftrin had demanded, as if no one would be foolish enough to go. ‘That’s deeper than any of the previous jams. It’s going to be cold down there and pitch black.’

‘I’d never go down into that black hole,’ Thymara had muttered. She’d shuddered.

And Tats was almost certain that was the reason why he’d stepped forward, saying, ‘I can do it.’

They had sent him down with a hatchet and a line and a ship’s lantern. Leftrin himself had fastened the harness they rigged for him, and the captain hadn’t said a word of protest when Hennesey had checked all his knots. ‘Better once too often than once not enough,’ he muttered, and Tats had felt his belly go cold.

The descent had taken an eternity; allowing his body to dangle freely from the line had been the hardest part. He’d listened to the sounds of the heavy timber and the pulley rigged to it as they took his weight, and he began his creaking descent. They lowered him slowly, and the lantern in his left hand showed him almost smooth black walls; the worked stone that comprised it fit almost seamlessly together. His right hand gripped the line that held him, and he could not seem to let go, even though he knew it was securely fastened to his harness.

The voices of his friends receded to anxious bird calls in the distance. The circle of light overhead became smaller, and the sounds of the straining line louder. The harness dug into him. And down and yet down he went.

When he came to the wedged timbers, the circle of light overhead had become a well of stars. It made no sense to him. He shouted up at them that he had reached the blockage. He gave his weight to it, standing on the heavy plank, and felt the line that held him go loose, and then abruptly tighten again. He felt like a puppet, suspended weightlessly on the plank. ‘A little slack!’ he shouted up at them, and heard their distant voices arguing. Then they complied and he stood, balancing on the blockage. He lowered his lantern to rest it on the plank.

They’d sent him down with an extra piece of line tied to his harness. His first task was to unfasten it. It was surprisingly difficult to do, for his hands quickly chilled. Once he had it freed, it took a surprising amount of courage before he could bring himself to kneel and then reach down to wrap the line around the timber he stood on. It was a hefty piece of wood, as big around as his waist and just slightly longer than the well shaft was wide. He knotted the line with the knot that Hennesey had insisted he use, and then tested it, pulling with all his strength. It held.

Then he moved on his knees to the higher end of the timber, took out the hatchet looped to his hip, and began to chop. The vibration travelled, at first just an interesting phenomenon, and then an annoying buzz in his knees. The wood was dry and hard and lodged as tightly as a cork in a bottleneck. He wished he had a heavier tool with a longer handle, even as he realized the hazards of trying to stand on and chop something under his feet.

He spent a good part of the morning chopping away this final barrier in the well. He had to pause to warm his hands under his arms and rub the numbness from his knees. Only his Elderling tunic kept the cold at bay. The tips of his ears and his nose burned with cold.

Eventually, the timber under his feet began to give small groans. Even though he had known the harness stood ready to take his weight, he had roared in terror when the beam suddenly gave way beneath his feet. The short end of it fell away into the darkness. The larger piece fell and swung wildly, the knotted line singing with its weight. He dangled next to it and only slightly above it. He clung to the lines with both hands, knowing a moment of shame when he realized he had dropped his hatchet in his terror. A heartbeat later he was being hauled up so swiftly that he could not even brace his feet on the wall to steady himself.