Dying of the Light by George R.R. Martin Read Free Book Online

dropped off as suddenly to the west as it had risen in the east, throwing up a tall barrier to shield the wild from the light of the still-climbing Wheel. “Down,” Gwen said, and he nodded, and they began a slow descent toward the jumbled dark greenery below. By then they had been up for more than an hour; Dirk was half-numb from the bite of the Worlorn wind, and most of his body was protesting this maltreatment.
    They landed well inside the forest, beside a lake they had seen as they came down. Gwen swooped down gracefully in a gentle curve that left her standing on a mossy beach beside the water’s edge. Dirk, afraid of smashing into the ground and breaking a leg, flicked off his grid a moment too soon and fell the last meter.
    Gwen helped him detach his boots from the skyscoot, and together they brushed damp sand and moss from his clothes and from his hair. Then she sat down beside him and smiled. He smiled back and kissed her.
    Or tried to. As he reached and put his arm around her, she pulled away, and he remembered. His hands fell, and the shadows swept across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, mumbling. He looked away from her, toward the lake. The water was an oily green, and islands of violet fungus dotted the still surface. The only motion was the half-seen stirrings of insects skimming the shallows nearby. The forest was even darker than the city, for the mountains still hid most of Fat Satan’s disc.
    Gwen reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “No,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I forgot too. It was almost like Avalon.”
    He looked at her and forced a faint smile, feeling lost. “Yes. Almost. I’ve missed you, Gwen, despite it all. Or should I be saying that?”
    “Probably not,” she said. Her eyes avoided his again and went wandering from him, out across the lake. The far side was lost in haze. She gazed into the distance for a long time, not moving except once, when she shivered briefly from the cold. Dirk watched her clothing slowly fade to a mottled off-white and green to match the shade of the ground she sat upon.
    Finally he reached to touch her, his hand unsure. She shrugged it away. “No,” she said.
    Dirk sighed and picked up a handful of cool sand, running it through his fingers as he thought. “Gwen.” He hesitated. “Jenny, I don’t know . . .”
    She glanced at him and frowned. “That’s not my name, Dirk. It never was. No one ever called me that except you.”
    He winced, hurt. “But why—”
    “Because it isn’t me!”
    “No one else,” he said. “It just came to me, back on Avalon, and it fit you and I called you that. I thought you liked it.”
    She shook her head. “Once. You don’t understand. You never understand. It came to mean more to me than it did at first, Dirk. More and more and more, and the things that name meant to me were not good things. I tried to tell you, even then. But that was a long time ago. I was younger, a child. I didn’t have the words.”
    “And now?” His voice was edged with overtones of anger. “Do you have the words
now,
Gwen?”
    “Yes. For you, Dirk. More words than I can use.” She smiled at some secret joke and shook her head so her hair tossed in the wind. “Listen, private names are fine. They can be a special sharing. With Jaan it is like that. The highbonds have long names because they fill many roles. He can be Jaan Vikary to a Wolfman friend on Avalon, and high-Ironjade in the councils of Gathering, and still Riv in worship and Wolf in highwar and yet another name in bed, a private name. And there is a rightness to it, because all those names are him. I recognize that. I like some of him better than other parts, like Jaan more than Wolf or high-Ironjade, but they are all true for him. The Kavalars have a saying, that a man is the sum of all his names. Names are very important on High Kavalaan. Names are very important everywhere, but the Kavalars know that truth better than most. A thing without a name has