Bones of the Dragon (30 page)

Skylan stared at her, thunderstruck. “Our
what
?”

The
Venjekar
sailed away from the isle known popularly as Krega’s Bane, bearing the new Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi. Skylan walked over to where Garn stood alone, leaning over the side of the ship, his arms resting on the timber.

“My friend, I need your help,” Skylan said in a low voice.

Garn glanced at him. Brows lowering, he looked away.

“You must help me!” Skylan repeated urgently. “The Priestess says I have to marry her! Her—an old woman! How am I to get out of it?”

Garn remained silent. He did not look at Skylan or acknowledge his presence.

“Garn, I know you’re mad at me,” Skylan continued. “I know I broke my vow to Torval—”

“—
and
to your father,” Garn inserted.

“Would you listen to me?” Skylan said, annoyed. “I’m trying to explain. It was Torval who put the idea in my head!”

Garn frowned.

“I swear it, Garn!” Skylan protested. “Torval knows my father would not make a good Chief of the Vindrasi. The Chief of Chiefs must lead men into battle, and Norgaard can’t even walk!”

Garn shook his head. “A Chief of Chiefs is not a War Chief, Skylan. Every clan has its own War Chief. A Chief of Chiefs must be knowledgeable in the law and wise in his judgments—”

“And you’re saying I’m not?” Skylan challenged.

“You didn’t even know the law states that the Chief must marry the Kai Priestess,” Garn pointed out.

Skylan was confounded, forced to admit Garn was right. Skylan didn’t know anything about the law, but to his mind, laws didn’t matter. That was why there were Talgogroths and Clan Councils and such. The Chief of Chiefs was the War Chief of the Vindrasi, despite what Garn said to the contrary. Skylan could already see himself leading the clans to glory, and he was convinced Torval agreed with him.

Torval had given him, Skylan, his victory over Horg. Unfortunately, Torval had also given Skylan a wife.

“Garn,” said Skylan softly, “this is not what I’m trying to talk to you about. I’m talking to you about marrying the Kai Priestess! The woman is old enough to be my grandmother!”

“She’s not that old, Skylan,” said Garn, glancing sidelong at Draya. “A few years over thirty, maybe—”

“My own mother would have been that age if she’d lived, and she would be a grandmother by now,” Skylan retorted. “Besides, I can’t marry the woman. I’m going to marry Aylaen. And I
can
marry her now that I am Chief of Chiefs. I will have a house of my own and land and cattle. I can pay Sigurd the bride-price—”

Garn shifted away uncomfortably, his expression dark and troubled.

Skylan heaved a sigh, ran his hand through his hair, letting the sea breeze cool him. He couldn’t understand what he’d done that was so wrong, and he was angry at Garn for making him feel miserable when this should have been the proudest, happiest day of his life. Skylan was of half a mind to walk off, let Garn sulk, but he was desperate for his friend’s advice on how to avoid marrying Draya. He tried to make amends.

“Maybe some of what you say is right,” Skylan admitted grudgingly. “And maybe I deserve some of your anger. But you can’t abandon me now, my brother. I need you. Tell me what I am to do!”

Skylan gazed pleadingly at his friend, and as always when they quarreled, Garn sighed and gave in.

“First, Skylan, you must apologize to your father.”

Skylan glanced over to where Norgaard sat on one of the bench seats, his
leg propped out in front of him. His face was twisted in pain. Not from the old injury. Pain from his son’s betrayal.

Skylan felt a pang of remorse. “You are right. I have done my father great wrong, and for that I am truly sorry.”

“Second,” said Garn, regarding Skylan intently, “you must make up your mind to the fact that you will wed the Kai Priestess. This is the law of the Vindrasi as laid down by the gods. You cannot get around it.”

Skylan scowled. His fist clenched and he slammed it down on the timber rail. “I won’t! I am Chief of Chiefs! I may do as I please—”

“No, you can’t, Skylan!” Garn said sternly. “
Before
you were Chief of Chiefs, you could do what you please. Not anymore.” He made an impatient gesture. “The very fact that you don’t seem to understand this means you are not fit to be Chief!”

Skylan regarded Garn coldly. “I came to you for help. I thought you were my friend. I guess I was mistaken.” Skylan started to walk off.

Garn caught hold of him. “Forgive me, Skylan. I should not have said that. But I am troubled for you. Deeply troubled. You have taken on an enormous burden. You don’t seem to realize how enormous! The lives of our people are now in your care. You are Chief of Chiefs, Skylan. You are supposed to uphold the law, not break it!”

“Being forced to marry the Priestess is a stupid law,” Skylan said. “And it should be changed.”

Garn said softly, “Consider this, Skylan. If you refuse to marry the Kai Priestess, you will be back on Krega’s Bane fighting for your life. The Chief of every clan in the Vindrasi will challenge you! I saw their faces when you were named Chief, Skylan. There were cheers, yes, but there were frowns, as well. Some are not happy that one they consider a mere boy was named Chief. They are probably already seeking an excuse to challenge you. Break the law of the Vindrasi that has stood inviolate for hundreds of years, and you give them a reason.”

Skylan flared up at the use of the word
boy
, but he forced himself to calm down. Garn wasn’t trying to insult him. Garn was saying what other men were thinking and maybe even daring to speak aloud. Men like Sven Teinar of the Heudjun. One of his sons was Skylan’s own age. Skylan stared gloomily out to sea. Why had his life suddenly become so complicated? He’d won a great victory! Torval had rewarded him. It wasn’t fair.

“Then what do I do about Aylaen?” Skylan asked.

“I don’t know, Skylan,” said Garn.

“I will ask her to wait for me,” Skylan decided. “The Kai Priestess is over thirty. She can’t live much longer—”

Garn shook his head in exasperation. “Think, Skylan! Aylaen would
have to first be Kai Priestess in order to marry you! She’s not even a Bone Priestess—”

“She must become one, then,” said Skylan. “You must tell her, Garn. Tell her that she has to start studying to be a Bone Priestess.”

“Skylan, you’re not serious—”

Skylan ignored him. “I like this plan! Aylaen will move to Vindraholm. As Chief of Chiefs I must live in the lord city, as well. She will study with the Kai, and we can be together. What’s wrong? Why do you look at me like that?”

But his friend had stalked off, going over to sit down beside Norgaard.

Skylan glared after Garn. He was about to pursue him; then he realized he didn’t have the strength. He was worn out, not only from the battle and pain, but also from the excitement, the upheaval, the turmoil in his head and heart. Nothing had turned out like he had expected.

“I risked my life. I won a great victory,” he told himself. “I deserve to be Chief of Chiefs! Yet now my father hates me. Garn won’t speak to me. I have to marry an old hag. . . .”

He sagged down onto the deck and closed his eyes, trying to think things over.

“Forgive me, lord. . . .”

Skylan jerked his head up.

The Kai Priestess was back again, kneeling in front of him. “I am sorry. I should have attended to your wounds.” She started to tug on his boot.

Skylan was about to tell the old woman impatiently that his wounds were nothing. He had no need of her fussing over him. Then he noticed Garn and his father both watching him, and he choked back the words. He forced himself to sit in silence, allowing Draya to pull off his boot and bathe his wound with a cloth she had dipped in seawater. The salt in the wound stung worse than the bite of the axe, and he clamped his teeth over the pain. Her fingers were cold; her thin hands were bony, like claws.

She is all bone, Skylan thought, no softness anywhere. He counted ten gray hairs on her head. Her breasts were barely visible beneath her dress, and he imagined them sagging down to her belly.

At least she is so old she will not expect me to bed her, Skylan thought, comforted. No matter that he was married, he would not break his vow to Aylaen, that he would love no other woman except her.

“I am sorry, lord, did I hurt you?” Draya asked in concern, feeling him flinch.

“No, Priestess,” he said. “My leg is much better.” He hurriedly pulled on his boot before she could offer to do it for him. “My throat is parched. If I could have a drink—”

“I will gladly fetch you something, lord,” Draya said eagerly and hastened away.

He heard laughter. A group of Torgun warriors had come aboard the dragonship to do honor to their new Chief, and he saw them laughing—he thought—at him.

“Shut your mouths!” Skylan said angrily.

The warriors stared at him in puzzlement, and he realized they had been laughing because they were in good spirits. The Torgun had gone from being the clan at the bottom of the dung heap to the foremost clan of the Vindrasi, the clan of the Chief of Chiefs, and they were celebrating.

The Kai Priestess came to his rescue. “The Chief of Chiefs is right,” Draya said reprovingly. She looked pointedly at the corpse wrapped in its bloody shroud. “The dead have not departed. Your mirth is not seemly.”

The warriors spoke their respectful apologies. Horg had been this woman’s husband, after all, and although the Priestess did not appear to be overcome with grief, she might be bravely covering her true feelings.

The Priestess handed Skylan a horn filled with ale. “I thought you would find this more refreshing than wine, lord,” she said, and she gave him a tremulous smile.

Her eyes were large and brown and liquid, like a cow’s.

“Thank you, Priestess,” Skylan said. Her hand touched his as he handed back the empty drinking horn, and she blushed like a maiden.

“I will bring you more, lord,” she offered.

“Not now,” he said, adding, “I must apologize to my father.”

The Kai Priestess glanced at Norgaard; then she looked back at Skylan. “You have nothing to apologize for, lord. You fought the Vutmana. The choice was rightly yours.”

“I know that, but I made a vow to him and to Torval that my father would be Chief of Chiefs,” Skylan said, sighing. “Will I be punished for breaking that vow, Priestess? Torval gave
me
the victory—”

“He did, lord,” she murmured.

“Then how can he punish me?”

“None of us knows the minds of the gods,” she said gravely. “But I believe that they are fair and practical and take many things into account, such as the need of the people in these troubled times for a strong Chief of Chiefs—”

“That is what I was trying to tell Garn!” exclaimed Skylan, pleased. “My father should understand that.”

“I am certain he will. Come,” Draya said, and she held out her hand to him. “We will speak to your father together.”

Skylan drew back. The woman was already behaving like a wife!

“I made the vow,” Skylan said gruffly. “I must make amends.”

He limped off quickly, before she could insist on going with him. She made him feel uncomfortable, and he couldn’t explain why.

Skylan walked over to where Norgaard sat on the deck, nursing his injured leg, massaging the scarred flesh.

“Father,” Skylan began awkwardly.

Norgaard grimaced and glanced up at him. “You do not need to say anything, Skylan. I understand. Garn made me see that you were doing Torval’s will.”

Skylan glanced at his friend in astonishment.

“Torval spoke to you,” Norgaard was continuing. “It was right for you to listen to the god. You will make a good Chief of Chiefs. Better than a cripple—”

“Don’t say that, Father,” Skylan protested, ashamed. He could not look at Garn, who was sitting some distance away, watching. “I will rely on you for advice, counsel—”

Norgaard smiled a brief, tight smile. “You fought well, my son. You made me proud.” He continued rubbing his leg. He closed his eyes, pretending to rest. The conversation was over.

Skylan sat beside Garn. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Garn said. “I did it for your father, to spare him shame.”

Skylan was silent a moment; then he said, “Now that my stepmother is dead and I am leaving, my father will be alone. He needs someone to look after him. Will you stay with him?”

“Of course,” said Garn. “It will be my honor.”

Skylan nodded. They made the rest of the short journey across the waves to Vindraholm in silence.

The dragonship arrived back at Vindraholm to cheers from the Heudjun people, all of them eager to welcome their new Chief of Chiefs, eager to put this shameful incident behind them. Torgun and Heudjun warriors splashed into the water together to help guide the ship ashore.

After the new Chief of Chiefs and the Kai Priestess and the others had disembarked, an uncomfortable silence fell on the crowd. Horg’s corpse was still aboard, and no one knew what to do with it.

Horg would not be given the farewell ceremony due to a fallen hero. That was out of the question. He had distant relations in another clan, and he could have been buried on his family’s land, in their traditional burial mound, but his cousins had disowned him, refused to claim him.

Several warriors, led by Sven, offered to carry the body off the dragonship. The Kai Priestess intervened.

“Leave him where he lies,” Draya ordered. “The matter is out of our hands.”

Draya stood on the beach and faced the dragon. She bowed low. The dragon’s carved eyes flashed a fiery red, and the people watched in awe to see the dragonship sail away of its own accord. No crew manned it.

The
Venjekar
, bearing Horg’s body wrapped in the bloody mantle of the god’s judgment, sailed due east, heading into the vast waters of the open sea.

The people stood in silence, watching until the dragonship was lost to sight.

The
Venjekar
returned.

Horg was never seen again.