The Dragons of Nova (Loom Saga #2)(41)
She had yet to confront Cvareh about their origin, but she let the matter stew. There was time yet. Now that she had freedom on Nova, she had more time for everything. Not much—Florence still needed her—but time enough. The fact that he produced hands that matched her ears connected a few dots for her all on her own, however. She was closing in the lines that explained how he’d even known of, not to mention acquired, her schematics. It meant the man who took them was somewhere close.
Arianna bared her teeth at the notion. The Dragon known as Rafansi was so very near, and she would find him.
Cvareh hissed loudly, jolting forward. “You have claws now.”
She retracted them, not even realizing she’d unsheathed them at the mere thought of the man who had betrayed her and the last resistance. “That comes with the territory of having Dragon hands.”
“Yes, well…” She saw Cvareh’s profile as he considered her hand on his waist. There was a note of recognition, a familiarity in the way he regarded it. He continued before the questions about its origins could spill from her lips. “I suppose it also comes with the territory to know how to pull your claws. You will attract unwanted conflict if you go waving them about, or digging them into people’s sides.”
“Are you going to duel me, Cvareh’Ryu?” she teased. Cain had told her in various brisk snippets—as most of their conversations went—about the importance of Dragon duels.
Cvareh laughed. It was loud and seemed to echo off the hills below and swirl like raw color in the wind. It was a different sound than he’d had down on Loom. Arianna regarded the man thoughtfully. She certainly hadn’t acted the same on Nova as she would on Loom. She was out of her element and outnumbered—an unwanted person in a foreign land. It would make sense he would’ve acted strangely on Loom in the same circumstances.
Which begot a new curiosity. What was he like here on Nova? What was the real Cvareh, and which did she favor?
“Cvareh’Ryu?” His mirth was uncontrollable.
“That is your name.”
“It is, but twenty gods, I never thought I’d hear you address me with any formality.”
“I was hardly being formal.” She’d used the title for ironic emphasis.
“That much was obvious. Still, a strange treat to hear it from your lips.” A smile was in his words, one Arianna didn’t quite understand.
“Where are we headed?” She changed the topic as the landscape beneath her began to give way to smaller towns that only grew against the far horizon.
“That down there is Abilla. They’re known for their millineries and cobblers. Some of Nova’s finest textiles come from their looms.”
The rooftops were shingled with wood, the houses made in all shapes and sizes. Arianna saw large windows and small. Bridges stretched between some; over others, ivy crept across to create a leafy walkway. The streets were cobblestone, or gravel, or packed dirt, winding like gnarled roots around the homes.
They were each coated in plaster and washed in some kind of ink, or paint, or clay. Yellow houses stood against purple ones, trimmed in vermilion or edged in ruby. The gears of her mind created smoke that clouded her head as they tried to find a pattern or logic in it. But if there was some rhyme or reason, it eluded her. It looked as though a child had spilled an architect’s models across a mossy surface, then proceeded to draw tall, thin, trees between the shorter balls of foliage connected by spindly trunks.
“See, look there.” Cvareh pointed to a river on the edge of town that had flowed down mightily from the mountains they’d started in. “They’re washing the inks from the fabrics.”
“I know what it looks like to wash ink from cloth.” Arianna rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“There’s a science, you know, to getting the right color and getting it to stick to the fibers. I learned it during my basic schooling on Ter.0.”
Cvareh was silent an acceptably somber second following the mention of the demolished Territory on Loom. “I wouldn’t have thought you studied something like dyeing fabric.”
“Why? There’s a practical methodology to it. Furthermore, sometimes you need different colors to mark things like ships or cautionary areas.”
“Practical methodology,” he repeated thoughtfully. “It would be something like that.”
“Let me guess: you do it for these impractical, gaudy rags you call clothes.” Arianna picked at his love of fashion and his clothing in the same breath.
He snorted. “For once, I can’t disagree with you. These are gaudy rags, nearly a full year old.”
She was utterly lost as to why his clothing would have some sort of expiry.
“That’s why we’re headed to Napole!” Cvareh turned forward with elation. The wind swelled beneath them, carrying them higher.
If Arianna hadn’t understood the logic behind the builder’s plans of Abilla, she was utterly hopeless when they arrived in Napole. The hills continued to slope downward to the island’s eventual end, and houses piled atop them precariously in such a way that reminded her of the castle and its ignorance to all form of logic. The structures leaned against each other for support like jolly drunkards, spires drew long shadows across rooftops, and archways reached down to bustling roadways.