Bones of the Dragon (55 page)

“For the goddess then—,” Garn said.

“I didn’t do this for Vindrash, either,” Aylaen said softly. She gazed at him. “Are you so blind? Don’t you really know why I did it?”

Garn shook his head.

“For us!” Aylaen whispered, and she twined her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him.

Garn took hold of her arms, pushed her away. He frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“I did this so we could be together,” Aylaen explained. “Skylan didn’t tell me to do this! He told me the story of Griselda, and that put the idea into my head.”

“You lied to Treia, to the Kai,” said Garn. “You said the goddess wanted you to do this!”

“It may have been Vindrash who put the idea into my head,” Aylaen said defensively, unknowingly echoing Skylan’s claim about Torval. “Who knows? Are you mad at me? I thought you would be pleased!”

“For what? That you could be killed—”

“And so could you! And if you died, I would die, for I could not live without you!”

“This is wrong,” said Garn. “You can’t go through with this, Aylaen. You’re as bad as Skylan. Putting your own selfish wants first. How can I stand in the shield-wall and think of what I have to do to stay alive if I’m
worried about you? I’ve been furious at Skylan, Aylaen. I thought this was his idea. I didn’t know it was yours.”

Treia came storming out of the dwelling. The lovers saw no one but each other, and they did not notice her. Wulfe did.

“Garn! Please!” Aylaen was clinging to him. “I did this for us. Because I love you. I never thought—I never meant—What are you going to do? Where are you going?”

“You have to tell your sister the truth,” Garn said, trying to free himself.

“It is too late for that,” said Treia.

The lovers sprang apart and turned guiltily to face her.

“She cannot tell the truth,” Treia continued. “Not now. If the Kai found out my sister made all this up just so she could sleep with you, the Kai would think I was a willing participant in her lie. That would ruin my chances to become Kai Priestess. I will not let that happen.”

“You can’t stop me from telling them—,” Garn began.

“Oh, yes, I can,” said Treia calmly. “She inherits land from her father on the day she is married. I will tell Sigurd that you seduced Aylaen to force her into marriage because you wanted her wealth.”

“Sigurd would kill him!” Aylaen gasped.

“Very probably,” said Treia. She stood with her arms folded tightly across her breasts. “Aylaen, come back inside. We must rise early in the morning.”

Garn looked grim. His fists clenched. He gazed at Aylaen, then turned and walked off into the darkness.

“Garn!” Aylaen cried. “Please . . . I’m sorry. . . .”

He did not look back.

“Come inside,” Treia ordered with a dire glance about the woods. “Evil walks in the night.”

“I’m not sleepy,” said Aylaen, and her voice sounded muffled. “You go on. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Treia shrugged and walked off. Aylaen waited a moment; then she walked over to the Hall of Vindrash and went inside, shutting the door behind her.

Wulfe yawned. He was growing sleepy, and he still had to find a good hiding place on board ship. He had found two: the large empty chest the warriors had hauled aboard, meant to hold all the treasure they were certain they would be bringing back, and a pile of furs and blankets Treia had carried on board to be used for her bedding.

He was not worried about Treia finding him. She would be busy communing with the Dragon Kahg as the ships were setting sail. She would have no time to go poking about the bedding on the off chance a boy might be hiding there.

As for Skylan, he would be busy with his tasks. Wulfe had told Skylan he meant to stay with Owl Mother, and Skylan had no reason to doubt him. Skylan had yet to learn that he was Wulfe’s geas, a charge that was usually magically laid on a person. In this instance, Wulfe had taken the geas upon himself.

Wulfe went loping down the path, trying to decide between the chest and the bedding, when his eye was caught by a flickering pinprick of light. He thought at first it was a will-o’-the-wisp. After his encounter with the draugr, Wulfe did not want to have any more dealings with restless dead, and he was about to take to his heels when a second glance revealed that the light was stationary, not moving.

Curious, Wulfe crept closer. Was everyone in the village up and about this night? He could move like his namesake through the underbrush, treading quietly on bare feet. As he drew nearer, the flame began to waver, and he saw that it came from a bundle of burning rushes, giving off smoke and a sweet smell. The fire illuminated a face. Wulfe recognized Raegar.

Wulfe hunkered down comfortably among the trees to watch. Raegar was on his knees in a clearing. In front of him was a large silver basin filled with water. The druids cared nothing for precious metals, and thus Wulfe had no way of knowing that such a basin was a thing of immense value. He knew only that it was metal, and therefore made his skin crawl, but he did admire the way it reflected the firelight.

Raegar held the rushes in one hand. With the other, he reached into a pouch he had strung onto his belt and drew out a small vial, the kind Owl Mother used to store her healing oils. Raegar drew out the vial’s stopper with his teeth and spit it onto the ground. He dribbled the contents of the vial into the silver basin and then touched the burning rushes to the water.

Flames flared, lighting Raegar’s face. Wulfe watched, enchanted, to see fire burning water. Raegar waited for the flames to die and then hunched over the basin. His lips moved. Wulfe could not hear what he was saying, for Raegar kept his voice low.

Wulfe lay on his belly on the ground, his chin propped in his hands, waiting for something exciting to happen. Perhaps a daemon to burst out of the bowl.

Nothing did. Raegar picked up the basin, dumped out the water, and thrust the basin into a sack. Using the flame of the burning rushes to light his way, he stood up and walked toward his dwelling.

Wulfe gave a shrug, and thinking he’d wasted enough time and that morning could not be far away, he hurried off.

All in all, it had been an eventful night.

As his mother had often told him, and as Wulfe had often observed, the Ugly Ones were very strange.

Aylaen sank to her knees on the dirt floor of the Hall of Vindrash. The outline of the base of the now broken and burned statue of Vindrash could be seen clearly in the dirt. Treia had brought a new statue of the goddess from Vindraholm and put it in the place of the old. The new statue was much smaller than the old one had been. It looked forlorn and shrunken to Aylaen.

She closed her eyes and imagined the old statue, the one that had frightened her as a child. She felt closer to that one.

“Blessed Vindrash, forgive me,” Aylaen prayed. “Garn is right. I lied to the Kai. I lied to Treia. I lied to Skylan. I told them all I did this because I wanted to serve you, dedicate myself to your worship. I am sorry! I am so sorry! I did not think what it would mean. Garn is right. I will put men’s lives in danger. I could imperil the mission!

“I came here to beg you to forgive me,” Aylean said softly, “and to tell you that I will not go. I will remain here. Garn will sail away, and I will never see him again. I know that in my heart. But I would not be the cause of his death or any man’s death. I could never forgive myself. Better this way. Tell me that I have your forgiveness, Vindrash!”

Aylaen remained kneeling in the darkness that was quiet and restful. Treia said that evil walked abroad in the night, but Aylaen did not believe that. She felt suddenly very close to the goddess. She pictured Vindrash holding shining wings over her, guarding and defending her. Aylean smiled and murmured a broken thank-you. She put her hand to the dirt floor, to start to rise. Her hand rested on metal, smooth and cool to the touch with a sharp edge that cut her finger.

Aylaen gave a little gasp of pain and looked more closely. The object shone in the moonlight, and she saw it was a sword. She gazed at it in wonder and awe. The sword had not been there before. She was certain of that.

Aylaen reached out her bleeding hand and gingerly picked up the sword by the hilt. The sword was lightweight, well-balanced. She knew enough about weapons from Garn and Skylan that she recognized this sword as being old, but superbly crafted. It seemed almost to have been made for her.

Aylaen lifted her wondering gaze to the heavens.

“Do you mean this, Vindrash? Is this your will?”

Aylaen picked up the sword reverently and took it back to the dwelling she shared with her sister.

Treia was awake, staring into the fire. She glanced at Aylean as she entered, and her eyebrows rose at the sight of the sword.

“What are you doing with that old thing?” she asked.

“Do you recognize it?” Aylaen asked. “Where did it come from?”

“Years ago some warrior had it made for Vindrash. He gave it to her as a grateful offering, saying she had appeared to him during a battle and given him the strength to defeat his foes. It used to stand beside the statue or so I remembered from the last time I was in the Hall, which was years ago. I thought it lost or perhaps the former Bone Priestess had gotten rid of it. Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t find it,” said Aylaen softly. “It found me.”

T
he Goddess Aylis fought her daily battle with the Dark God Skoval, and drove him back. The Sea Goddess Akaria was placid and smooth. The Goddess of the Winds, Svanses, breathed on them gently. The day promised to be cloudless, fine. The gods were smiling on them. The Vindrasi were sailing to war.

The Torgun warriors boarded their dragonship, the
Venjekar
. Because they were the birth clan of the Chief of Chiefs, the Torgun had the honor of taking the lead. Each warrior placed his shield on the rack on the side of the ship, creating a colorful and formidable show of force. The
Venjekar
waited now for the arrival of the Bone Priestess, Treia, and her sister, Aylaen. Word that Aylaen was going to undertake the ritual of the Man-Woman had spread rapidly throughout the village, and everyone was avidly curious to see whether she would go through with her vow.

Neither Skylan nor Garn had any doubts. As Skylan had said gloomily to his friend, oak trees would dance in the forest before Aylaen changed her mind.

The warriors crowded the rail, calling out farewells or shouting last-minute instructions to friends and family. Raegar walked over to join Skylan, who was pacing the crowded deck, fuming over the delay. Skylan was not feeling particularly well-disposed toward his cousin these days, and he gave Raegar a dismissive glance and kept walking. Raegar noticed Skylan’s ill humor, but put it down to a different cause.

“Do not worry, Cousin. Aylaen will not carry out her promise,” Raegar said
confidently. “Treia told me so herself. She’s spent two days talking to her sister, trying to dissuade her. Aylaen is headstrong and wild, but she’s not stupid.”

Skylan shook his head and went to angrily berate a young warrior who had stowed his sea chest in the wrong place.

The sun climbed above the horizon and teetered on the ocean’s flat surface like a bright coin. The ships should have set sail by now. If they didn’t get under way soon, they would lose the fullness of the tide. Skylan was about to send a messenger to fetch Treia, when the Bone Priestess appeared, walking along the dunes. Aylaen walked behind her.

The entire Torgun Clan had gathered along the shoreline to bid farewell to their warriors. The mood was festive, everyone laughing and cheerful, certain that bad times were coming to an end. When word was whispered about that the two sisters were coming, all talk and clamor ceased.

Treia walked in front. Most of her possessions were already on board. As was customary, Skylan had given the Bone Priestess the cabin belowdeck for her own personal use, and she had stowed away her clothes and other necessities. She brought with her a small rosewood box containing vials of potions, unguents, and ointments she would use for healing, since the goddess was no longer around to answer her prayers. The jars and vials rattled as she walked. She trod carefully, peering down with her weak eyes to see where she was putting her feet. She did not want to fall and break her precious cargo.

Aylaen came a few paces behind. She walked with her head high, her face flushed, partly embarrassed, wholly defiant. She stared straight out in front of her, pretending to ignore the staring eyes, the gasps, the pitying cries from the women, the growls of disapproval from the men.

Her red curls were gone. She was almost bald. Treia had hacked off Aylaen’s hair at the scalp line. Perhaps due to her poor eyesight, Treia had botched the job, leaving Aylaen with red tufts of hair sticking out of her head and bloody patches of skin.

Aylaen carried a shield that had belonged to her father, painted with his colors, blue and white. She carried her new sword.

She wore man’s clothes, and surprisingly, they suited her. Aylaen was tall as most men, though more slender. She had altered the garments to fit her, and she liked the freedom and the comfort they afforded her. She wore leather armor studded with iron that had been her father’s, and new boots, a gift from Treia.

At the sight of her daughter dressed like a man with no hair to speak of, Aylaen’s mother ran to her and grabbed hold of her, weeping and begging her to stay.

“Mother, you are shaming me!” Aylaen said angrily, trying vainly to free herself from her mother’s tearful pleas and clinging grasp.

Grim-faced, Treia walked back to deal with the situation. She said a few
sharp words that left her mother pale and mute. Friends led the mother away with soothing words and irate glances for her two daughters.

“
She
is shamed! Hah!” Sigurd was on board the ship with the warriors. He glared at Aylaen, then turned his back and refused to look at her.

The entire village had been witness to his fury when word reached him of Aylaen’s decision. He had stormed off to Norgaard to protest, demanding that the Clan Chief put a stop to this fool notion.