Bones of the Dragon (16 page)

Treia crouched over a kettle, engaged in combining various ingredients and stirring them together. Aylaen rested her cheek against her sister’s and put her arms around her. At first Treia stiffened in Aylaen’s embrace and seemed about to rebuff her. Something in Aylaen’s softened expression touched her sister. A faint smile flitted over Treia’s thin lips. She touched Aylaen’s hand, and then she went back to her work.

Garn returned with wood and built up the fire until the room was almost too hot to bear. Aylaen piled furs and blankets on top of Skylan, wrapping him snugly. He remained sunk in the strange sleep.

“He’s still so cold,” she said.

She smoothed back Skylan’s wet hair with a gentle hand, looking with deep concern at the pallid face of her friend. Skylan was dear to her, taking second place only to Garn in her heart.

“Treia should ask the gods to help him,” said Garn.

Aylaen cringed and glanced around, but Treia was absorbed in her work and did not seem to hear.

“I’m certain she knows best,” Aylaen said, and changed the subject. “What Skylan did was very brave. And very foolish.” She shook her head in fond exasperation. “He should have sent someone who didn’t have a gash in his thigh.”

“Skylan is War Chief,” said Garn. “It was his right to accept the danger.”

Aylaen could tell by his tone that he secretly agreed with her, but he would let himself be sliced open and turned inside out before he would say anything against his friend.

“Which is why I love you,” Aylaen whispered, and she brushed her lips against his shoulder as she rose to go see if she could assist Treia.

“Hold this,” said Treia, and she handed Aylaen a drinking horn.

Liquid clear as water simmered in the kettle. Treia filled a ladle and poured the contents into the horn mug.

Aylaen regarded it dubiously. “What is it?”

“It is called bread wine,” Treia said. “It is wine made from grain, not grapes.
The process is secret, known only to the Kai Priestess. Draya gave me some to bring with me.”

“It looks just like water,” Aylaen said. “Are you sure it will warm him?”

“It will warm everything inside him,” said Treia dryly. “Taste it, if you like.”

Aylaen tipped the mug gingerly to her lips and swallowed a small mouthful. Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t catch her breath, and she choked and gagged. Treia was right. The liquid burned from her tongue down her throat and into her belly.

“Lift his head,” Treia ordered Garn.

Treia shoved the horn mug into Skylan’s mouth and expertly tilted back his head, forcing the liquid into his mouth and down his throat. Skylan gagged much of it back up, but Treia was persistent and kept pouring it down him.

When the drinking horn was empty, Garn laid his friend back down on the bed.

“Now what?” he asked.

“He wanders the Nethervold,” said Treia, shrugging. “He will either find his way back or he won’t.”

Dark waves washed over Skylan’s head. He swam and swam, but he could not reach the shore. He was cold, bitterly cold, and exhausted and in pain. He kept swimming because he had the spiritbone and his people needed the dragon. He swam until he was so cold that he could no longer feel his arms and legs. He was tired. Very tired. It would be easier to die. He started to sink. . . .

His feet touched sandy bottom. He almost wept with relief as he waded out of the water. The sun blazed down on him, warmed him. He had landed on a strange shore, one he did not recognize. White cliffs soared high above him. He had to crane his neck to see to the top. Eagles circled in the blue sky.

Naked, Skylan walked the shore, searching for a ship, a boat, a raft—anything. He had to return to his people before it was too late.

At the bottom of the white cliffs was a cave. Outside the cave, a man sat on a boulder. He had his back to Skylan, who walked toward him. The man was a warrior, and an important one at that. He must be a lord, the Chief of some wealthy clan. He wore a helm adorned with dragon wings, and he was clad in plate armor and chain mail, bright and shining in the sunlight. His shield, painted blue and gold, lay on the ground. A beautiful two-handed sword hung at his side.

“Hail, noble sir!” Skylan said, calling out so that the lord would not think he was sneaking up on him.

The lord turned his head, and Skylan was startled to see the noble lord bent over a hot flat rock, cooking fish.

Skylan stood touching his hand to his breast in a mark of respect, but he couldn’t help staring.

The armor the man wore was costly. The sword alone could ransom a king. So what was this noble warrior doing sitting alone on an empty stretch of beach cooking his dinner like a poor fisherman?

The warrior had long gray hair and was clean-shaven. He had a beaked nose and far-seeing eyes, a strong jaw and jutting chin. He was old, far older than Norgaard, who was the oldest man Skylan had ever known. The lord’s eyes, shadowed by overhanging brows, glittered with an inner blue fire. The eyes pierced Skylan through and through.

“Forgive my nakedness, sir,” Skylan said, ashamed. “I was shipwrecked, lost at sea. Can you tell me where I am and where I can find a boat? My people are going to battle against the ogres, and I must fight for them.”

“I know all about your people,” said the old warrior, grunting. “I know about the ogres, Freilis take them and feed them to her demons. And I know you, Skylan Ivorson. You obviously do not know me, though you wear my axe around your neck and your prayers din in my ears daily.”

Skylan’s jaw dropped. He stared, gaping. “Torval!” He couldn’t help but add in disbelief, “Cooking fish?”

“What of it? I can’t stomach them raw.” The god eyed Skylan. “You’re an arrogant young dog, aren’t you?”

Skylan flushed, not sure what to say. Torval, Warrior God of the Vindrasi, should have been sitting at ease in his chair in the Hall of Heroes, drinking and celebrating with those valiant warriors who had died in battle and would fight with Torval in the last great war at Time’s end. Instead, he was here alone on a empty beach, roasting fish.

“I worship you, Torval, and honor—,” Skylan began.

Torval rubbed his chin. “You claim to have faith in me. But I’ll wager you have more faith in yourself.”

Skylan’s flush deepened. His dearest wish in all the world was to stand before Torval, and here he was, saying, doing, and thinking all the wrong things. “I swear to you, Torval—”

“Forgo swearing.” Torval sighed. He looked suddenly very old and very tired. “We don’t have much time together. My enemies pursue me, harry me. I cannot remain here long. I cannot remain anywhere long.”

“Then what the ogres claimed is true!” Skylan said, dismayed. “The Gods of the Vindrasi lost the battle—”

“I did not piss my pants and run!” Torval roared. “Nor am I dead, as they claim. Though I did lose Desiria, who was dear to me.”

His eyes grew moist as he spoke. He clenched his fist in anger, and the fire burned away his tears.

“We gods will continue the fight. Or at least some of us will; I have no idea where that craven coward Joabis is hiding. I’ve had my eye on you, Skylan Ivorson. Most of what I’ve seen I’ve liked. Not all.” He shrugged. “But most.”

Skylan fell to his knees. “I am yours, Torval.”

“You must fight in the battle for the Vektan Torque tomorrow,” said the god. “The very survival of the Vindrasi is at stake, and so I’m going to do for you what I’ve never done for any mortal. I’m going to make you whole again.”

“Thank you, Torval!” Skylan was elated. “I will justify your faith in me.”

The god grunted. “We’ll see about that. I am not an easy master, as you will soon find out. Here, drink this.”

He handed Skylan his drinking horn. Inside was a clear liquid. Skylan drank and choked and coughed and kept coughing, his eyes watering so he could not see. When he finally caught his breath, Torval had disappeared.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Garn asked, waking with a start.

He had not meant to fall asleep, but he was worn out from the day’s exertions. He’d leaned his back against the wall near Skylan’s bed, planning to keep watch over his friend. Sleep had crept up on him and captured him without a fight. He glanced outside. The sky was still dark. The stars still shone brightly. Morning was yet some distance away.

“He’s breathing normally,” Aylaen said. “His skin is warm to the touch! Treia was right. Sister, look!”

Treia came over to the bed. She bent down, placed her hand on Skylan’s head and then on his chest. He smiled and let go of the spiritbone.

“Torval,” he muttered, “I am yours!”

“Your prayers worked, Treia!” Aylaen said softly. “What the ogres claimed is not true! The gods are not dead. The broken statue was just a broken statue.”

“I didn’t pray for him,” Treia said.

Lifting Skylan’s head, she removed the spiritbone from around his neck. “I am going to the Hall of Vindrash,” Treia announced, taking up a torch. “Alone,” she added, guessing that Garn would offer to escort her. “I will be safe. After all, the gods are with me.”

Aylaen winced at her sister’s mocking tone and hoped Garn did not notice.

“I will take the good news to Norgaard, and then I will be back,” Garn said. He looked very grim.

He left, heading for the village at a run. Treia walked into the darkness, carrying the spiritbone, clutching it tightly, her fingers curled over it as though she secretly longed to crush it. She kept her head lowered, forced to peer, squint-eyed, at the uneven ground beneath her feet to avoid tripping and falling. The torch flame wavered in the wind.

Aylaen watched from the doorway until she saw the torchlight vanish and she was certain Treia had reached the Hall safely. Sighing, Aylaen shut the door. She drew the blanket up around Skylan’s shoulders and tucked it around him and added more wood to the fire. The room was warm; the heat was making her drowsy. She needed something to do to keep herself awake. Skylan would be hungry when he woke. Garn had brought along some of the boar meat. Aylaen tossed it in the stewpot and began chopping up vegetables. Intent on her work, she was startled to feel that someone else was in the room with her. The presence was not threatening. It was reassuring, warming as the bread wine.

“Treia? Is that you?” Aylaen asked. She turned abruptly and almost cut herself with the sharp knife. “I didn’t hear you come in—”

The door was shut. The room was empty.

Aylaen looked at Skylan, but he lay sprawled comfortably on his back, fathoms deep in easeful slumber.

Aylaen finished her task and sat down. She thought back to a time when she was a little girl and she had run away from Sigurd and his fist and had ended up getting lost in the woods in the night. She had been terrified and had started to cry, and then she had felt a presence as she felt now, gentle and loving. She had imagined wings folding around her, holding her close, keeping her safe. She had fallen asleep. . . .

Aylaen woke with a start.

“Vindrash,” Aylaen whispered, “I am not one of your Priestesses. I know it’s not my place to ask, but as you love your people, please grant Treia’s prayers this night!”

S
kylan woke before dawn feeling groggy, his head pounding, as though he’d spent the night carousing, not dodging spears and fighting ogres. He reached immediately for the spiritbone, and not finding it, his eyes flared open and he sat up, alarmed.

“Relax,” said Garn, smiling. “Treia has the spiritbone. She has gone to summon Kahg.”

Skylan sighed in relief. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and winced.

“How’s your leg?” Garn asked.

“Stiff,” Skylan admitted, adding in a puzzled tone, “It’s not my leg that aches. It’s my head. I feel as though I’d gone swimming in ale, not seawater.”

“It must be the bread wine Treia gave you,” Garn said.

“The stuff tasted foul,” Aylaen said. “It sent you into a deep sleep. You called on Torval in your dreams.”

“I never dream,” Skylan returned contemptuously. “Ask Garn.”

“He doesn’t,” Garn agreed with a shrug. “Or if he does, he never remembers them.”

Aylaen was skeptical. “Everyone dreams.”

“I don’t,” Skylan said firmly. He glanced around at his surroundings, dim in the gray light. “Where am I?”

“My sister’s house,” said Aylaen, and she handed him a bowl of stew along with a hunk of bread.

Skylan sniffed at it dubiously. “Did you make this?” He winked at Garn. “Perhaps I should have you taste this first, like the ogres, to make sure you haven’t poisoned me.”

“Fine. I’ll take it back,” said Aylaen, reaching for the bowl.

Skylan yanked it out of her hands. He dipped the bread in the gravy, stuffed it hungrily into his mouth.

Aylaen handed Garn a bowl of stew. As he took it from her, their hands touched.

“Torval be with you this day,” she said softly.

“He will be,” said Skylan, scooping meat into his mouth with the bread.

He looked up to find Aylaen standing close to Garn, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Seeing Skylan watching, she flushed and moved her hand. Garn cleared his throat and stepped a pace away.

Skylan quit eating to stare at them. “You two . . .”

“What?” Garn asked in a tight voice.

Skylan smiled. “The three of us together this morning. My brother and my betrothed. It makes me happy, that’s all.”

He handed Aylaen the empty bowl.

“A good thing I’m not marrying you for your cooking,” he jested.

Aylaen’s face went crimson. She took the bowl and laid it aside, hardly knowing where she put it. Garn opened the door and stood breathing deeply. Aylis the Sun Goddess had not yet risen from her bed, but the light of her blazing torch could be seen above the treetops, brightening the sky in the east, causing the stars to grow pale in homage.

“A fine day for a fight,” said Skylan.

He wrapped the blanket around his waist and rose from the bed, putting weight on his leg. The wound was sore, but his leg bore his weight without complaint.

“I brought you some clothes.” Garn gestured to the foot of the bed. “And your weapons, your armor, and your shield.”