Upstairs, she crept into Tyron Godwort’s room and stood shivering, looking around at his abandoned belongings. Now that she knew what had happened to him, it seemed a sinister, lonely place, but she needed new clothes, and the boy had looked close to her height and size. She went to the wardrobe and began pulling out items of clothing and laying them on the bed – it seemed like Tyron had more outfits than anyone could ever possibly need, but then, Noon reminded herself, at the Winnowry she had only ever had the one. Perhaps this was a normal wardrobe, and everyone had more clothes than they could wear in a year.
She selected warm, woollen leggings and a long-sleeved silk shirt of pale green. She also picked up a maroon velvet jacket that was a little tight across the chest but had bright silver buttons she rather liked; this she stuffed into a bag with some other items, and went back downstairs. Tor was where she had left him, his long form stretched out in the dishevelled bed. His face was turned away from her, but she knew well what it looked like by now – the terrible raw landscape of it haunted her. She had managed, gradually, to cut away the shirt on the left-hand side of his body, so that the ruin of his arm was exposed to the light from the window. She had made small progress with his healing, but it was progress, nonetheless.
‘Hey, bloodsucker, how do you feel today? You look a little, uh, peaky.’
She rolled up her sleeves, taking a brief pleasure in the sensation of silk against skin, and knelt on the bed next to him. Picking up one of the knives she now kept on the bedside table next to a bowl of water and soap, she sliced part of her arm open. She knew she was being less than careful now, but she also knew there was no stepping back from it.
Leaning over him, she pressed her wrist to his mouth and he moaned. His good arm came up around her, encircling her waist and pulling her forward so abruptly that she almost fell over him. Grimacing slightly, Noon held herself up with her other arm as he fed. There was strength in the arm that held her, and that gave her some hope.
‘Easy, easy.’ She tried to pull her arm away, to extract herself from him, but his grip on her intensified and a wave of light-headedness caused her to blink rapidly. It was too easy, she reflected, to let him take what he wanted – there was a closeness to it that reminded her of the purging at the Winnowry, and the broad shoulders of Novice Lusk as he knelt before her. When you were denied all human contact, this moment of intimacy was powerful. For a few moments she allowed herself to enjoy that sense of closeness, the warmth of his mouth against her skin and the strength of his arm across her back, and then she remembered that she had yet to eat anything and to let this go on for too long would be dangerous for them both.
With more determination than before Noon pulled herself away from Tor’s grip, noticing as she did so that the sheet that bunched around his waist was in more of a disarray than it had been. She stared at that a moment before she realised what it meant, and then she stumbled away from the bed, her cheeks suddenly hot.
‘Oh. Fire and – oh.’ Belatedly, she remembered that Tor usually received his blood donations from willing lovers. It made sense that he would associate the taste of blood with sex. She swallowed hard and left the room.
When she came back, she had eaten bread and cheese from the kitchens, fed their ponies with the oats left in the stables, and had downed a glass of wine. She felt unutterably tired, and Tor had turned over to one side, so that if he still had an erection, she couldn’t see it.
‘You know, I admire your dedication,’ she said as she lay down on the bed next to him. The warmth of his body was a balm, her eyelids as heavy as rocks. ‘Most people wouldn’t be in the mood, but you –’ she yawned cavernously – ‘I guess what they say about Eborans . . .’
She slept.
In the dream she was by the Ember River. She had taken her boots off and she was sitting with her feet in the chill water, watching the moonlight glitter across it. Here and there she could just make out the red stones that gave the river its name, and the dark clouds of the underwater plants that grew here. It was a mild night, but her feet were very cold indeed. Even so, she did not want to get up.
She remembered this place. The plains were dissected by two great rivers, the Trick, which was different depending on where you came to it, and the Ember River, which was wide and slow moving. Her people came here often, to wash and to collect water and to meet with the other people who came here. Rivers meant people, and they meant animals too, that was what her mother said. Water brought life.
Noon smiled, wondering dimly where her mother was, even as she looked at the shape of her legs as they dangled into the water. They were long and even shapely, the legs of an adult woman, and something about that and the memory of speaking to her mother didn’t add up. Some piece of terrible knowledge seemed to loom over her at that, so she shook her head, backing away from it. Instead, she realised that there was someone else at the riverside.
‘Greetings, witch,’ said Tor. He was strolling along the bank, his hands behind his back. ‘This is quite a picturesque spot. Somewhere you visited once, I assume?’
Noon scrambled to her feet. Tor’s face and neck were unblemished, totally free from burns, and his skin seemed to glow under the moonlight. He wore an elaborate padded silk jacket she had not seen before. It was embroidered with silver leaves and his black hair was loose over his shoulders. He smiled at her expression.
‘This old thing? It’s a little extravagant, I will admit, but, occasionally, I do miss these comforts from home, and why shouldn’t I wear them in dreams?’
‘A dream.’ Noon swayed on her feet. ‘That’s what this is. Shit.’
The river and the night sky wavered, becoming something false – like the sheets on which Mother Fast would paint scenery for her puppet shows.
‘No, please, don’t go.’ Tor laid a hand on her arm. ‘It would be good to have someone to talk to. Stay here for a little longer.’
He gestured and the river became a real place again, filling out at the edges and becoming a solid thing. Seeing her look of surprise, he grinned. ‘My sister Hestillion was always better at shaping dreams, but I am not completely terrible at it. Don’t think about the fact that this is a dream, just listen to my voice. Tell me about this place. About this memory.’
‘How can you do that?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Eborans can dream-walk,’ he said mildly. ‘Remember?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ She felt lost. His face, so close to hers, was calm and unconcerned. The last time she had seen it, that had not been the case. She took a breath. ‘This is the Ember River. I came fishing here sometimes when I was small. In the deeper places there were pike, although I never caught one of those, I wasn’t strong enough to pull them in.’ She stopped. ‘Is this really you I’m talking to, or a dream version of you I’ve made up?’
Tor laughed. ‘That’s a good question, witch. It’s really me, for what it’s worth, but then if I were a dream version, I would still say that, wouldn’t I?’
Abruptly, Noon wanted to push him in the river. ‘Leave me alone. This stuff is private.’