Bones of the Dragon (7 page)

The Hall and the longhouse were located some distance from the village,
in a small clearing in the midst of the forest. Both were kept in excellent repair by the men of the village. Treia had a small garden, where she grew herbs used in healing. Otherwise, the people of the village supported the Bone Priestess with gifts of food and hides, cooking pots and furs, and whatever else she might require.

Skylan found Aylaen pacing outside the closed door of the Hall of Vindrash. She smiled at him. He smiled to see her. He’d hoped to find her here, another reason he’d decided to ask for Treia’s help. Her gaze softened when she looked at the bloody gash in his thigh.

“You are white as milk,” Aylaen said. She eyed his blood-soaked clothing worriedly.

“Most of that blood is the boar’s,” Skylan said proudly.

Her concern was a pleasant surprise. Usually whenever Aylaen encountered him, she found some reason to mock or laugh at him. He was warmed to think she cared about him.

“Sit down on the ground. Let me see.”

Skylan eased himself down. Aylaen gently tried to peel away the blood-gummed bandages that had stuck to the wound. He flinched and gasped with the pain.

“It looks bad,” said Aylaen. “It’s all inflamed.”

“I have to fight tomorrow,” said Skylan. “I need your sister to intercede with the Goddess Desiria for me.”

Aylaen glanced doubtfully at the closed door. “Treia said she was not to be disturbed.”

Aylaen’s well-meaning ministrations had opened the wound again. Blood flowed freely. Skylan, now that he was sitting, was not sure he could get back up again.

“She must,” he said. “I am the War Chief.”

Aylaen nodded and went to knock gently on the door.

“Sister, I am sorry to disturb your prayers, but Skylan Ivorson is here. He is wounded, and he needs the healing blessings of the Goddess Desiria.”

Skylan heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened a tiny crack. Treia peered out.

“I can do nothing for him,” she said coldly, and started to shut the door.

“Sister, look at him!” Aylaen cried, seizing hold of the door and holding it ajar. She gestured to Skylan. “See how ill he is—”

Treia’s nearsighted glance flicked over him.

“I can do nothing,” she repeated, and she slammed the door shut.

“Your sister has never liked me,” Skylan said. “I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to her.”

Aylaen stood staring at the closed door, a dreamy haze clouding her eyes.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “The gods weep. Aylis hides her face in grief. Akaria screams and tears her hair. . . .”

“Aylaen,” said Skylan sharply.

Aylaen looked at him and blinked. “What?”

“You are not a bard, and this is no time for storytelling,” he said impatiently. “We have outgrown make-believe. Besides,” he added, frowning, “the gods will take offense. Making up such stories about them is disrespectful.”

“I don’t mean to be. I like to think of them as a family.” Aylaen’s smile dimmed; her expression darkened. “Not as
my
family. A family that loves and cares for each other.”

Skylan struggled to his feet, his hand pressed over his thigh.

“I will talk to your sister,” he said, and he started for the door.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Aylaen hurriedly. “I have an idea. Owl Mother lives close by—”

“That old crone! Never mind. I am feeling much better. I must return to the village. Garn will need my help—”

Skylan took a step, swayed dizzily, and sagged to his knees. Aylaen knelt down beside him and slipped her arm around his midriff.

“Put your arm across my shoulder,” she ordered.

Skylan was too weak to argue. He did as she told him.

Aylaen’s body pressed against his, and with her help, he was able to stand. Skylan could feel the softness of her breast beneath the wool of her gown, the firmness of her thigh, the play of her muscles, and desire outdid his pain.

Aylaen was tall for a woman, above average height, and she was strong, for she had done hard physical labor on the family farm from childhood onward. She had no trouble supporting Skylan’s weight. Her red mass of curls—so different from the silky blond hair of the rest of her family—brushed against his cheek.

No one else in the Torgun had red hair. There were whispers that the man who had been married to her mother was not her real father. Perhaps that was one reason Sigurd seemed to have so little fondness for his brother’s wife.

“Owl Woman won’t be in her dwelling,” said Skylan huskily. The ache of desire warred with his pain. “She would have gone into the hills with the other women.”

He’d never been this close to Aylaen, not since they were children and had played their rough-and-tumble games. He’d wanted to hold her, the gods knew! But he could never bring himself to touch her, which was odd, because he’d had no such inhibitions regarding other women.

He could still have his pick of those women, but he wanted only one, and that was Aylaen. He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her at night to wake with a groan of longing. He spent hours imagining what he would say to her that would cause her eyes to glow with desire for him. And yet, when he started to say the words, Aylaen would mock him and laugh at him, pretending she didn’t understand.

She did understand; he was certain of it. He was convinced she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Women liked to tease a man, toy with him as fox kits toy with a dead rabbit.

Skylan slowed his steps. “Let me rest a moment with you. The two of us together, here, where it is quiet—”

His arm tightened suggestively around her shoulder.

“I have left my sister alone too long already,” said Aylaen. “As for Owl Mother, she will be in her dwelling. She would never leave her animals. Just a little farther, brother—”

“Don’t call me that!” Skylan ordered angrily.

“Why not?” Aylaen asked pertly. “That’s how I think of you.”

“I don’t want you to think of me that way!” Skylan said. “You are my betrothed. Soon you will be my wife.”

“You don’t need a wife. You have too many women already,” Aylaen said teasingly.

“I have not slept with anyone in two years!”

Aylaen’s eyes widened. She was mocking him. “Truly?”

Skylan made a dismissive gesture. “I want you and no other.”

“I was jesting,” she said.

“I wasn’t,” he replied.

Aylaen flushed and lowered her eyes in confusion. “Skylan, there is something I must tell you—”

“Stop right there, whoever you are!” said a warning voice. “One more step, and I’ll set the wolves on you.”

The sound of a low, rumbling growl caused Skylan to draw his knife.

“We should leave!” he said.

Aylaen ignored him, as usual.

“It’s Aylaen, Owl Mother, and Skylan Ivorson. He was gored by a boar. He needs your help.”

“Let the gods heal him,” came the scornful reply. “I have work to do.”

“Perhaps you have not heard, Owl Mother. Ogres came to the village and—”

“I know about the ogres. The crows told me. What has that to do with anything?”

Aylaen and Skylan exchanged glances.

“The ogres said there was a great battle in heaven, Owl Mother,” Aylaen replied. “They claim our gods were defeated—”

Her words were met by silence.

“We’re getting out of here,” Skylan said insistently.

Aylaen shook her head.

Skylan glared at her, exasperated. “I say we’re leaving.”

“And I say we’re not,” she flared, her temper as fiery as her flame-colored hair. “You don’t tell me what to do, Skylan Ivorson. No one tells me what to do. And, in case you’ve forgotten, you may have to fight tomorrow. Look at yourself! You can’t even walk without help!”

Skylan drew in a seething breath. He recalled what he’d said earlier in the day about Torval having difficulty controlling the women in his family.

“Let the son of Norgaard come forward!” Owl Mother said grudgingly.

Aylaen started to help him, but he shoved her away.

“I can manage on my own. Wait for me here.”

Once again, Aylaen disobeyed. He looked back to see her walking along behind him. He shook his head. Things would be different once they were married.

Skylan emerged from the forest into a clearing. Here, he halted again, looking warily about, wondering where the old woman was and, more important, what she had done with the wolves. Skylan had never been to Owl Mother’s dwelling. There had been no need. Desiria, Goddess of Life, had always thought well of him and given him her blessing. Skylan felt a flash of annoyance at the goddess for having forced him to resort to fae magic.

In the center of the clearing was a longhouse that was well constructed, small, and snug. There was a large garden, newly planted. Six deer stood grazing calmly on grass around the cabin. At the sight of Skylan, the deer fled, white tails flashing.

Six deer! And he and Garn had spent days searching and not seen one. Ducks waddled about the yard. Chickens pecked at the ground. Birds twittered and called.

Owl Mother was nowhere in sight, but the door to the cabin stood open. Moving closer, he saw animal pens in the rear of the house. A calf with a bandage around its leg, looking very sorry for himself, stood in one. A couple of goats were in another. Owl Mother was known for her skill in treating sick animals. People in the village would either send for her or bring the animals to her. A cat, missing an ear, strolled along one of the fence posts. The cat paused to lick its front paw and stare at Skylan. It didn’t appear impressed.

Aylaen came to stand beside Skylan.

“Go home, girl!” Owl Mother yelled from the house. “You’re not needed. This is between me and the son of Norgaard.”

Aylaen looked uncertainly at Skylan. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course. Go back to your sister,” he said.

“Don’t be mad, Skylan,” Aylaen said softly.

She kissed him on the cheek, as a sister might kiss a brother, and then she turned and walked back along the trail.

Skylan watched her until he lost sight of her among the trees; then he looked at the dwelling. He saw no sign of anyone. He was growing increasingly impatient; his wounds burned and throbbed.

“Put down the knife,” said Owl Mother. “And then come inside.”

Skylan did as he was told, dropping his knife onto the grass. The dwelling’s interior was dark and shadowy. After the bright sunlight outside, Skylan was half-blinded, and he almost stepped on a large wolf that was reclining on the floor. The wolf reared to its feet with a snarl, hackles rising. Skylan stumbled backwards.

From somewhere in the darkness came a chuckle. “The wolf won’t harm you. Not unless I tell him to. Just don’t make any sudden moves or look him in the eye, and you’ll be safe enough.”

Skylan still could not see the woman.

“Don’t just stand there like a lump, Son of Norgaard,” Owl Mother said testily. “I have work to do, if you don’t. Come into the kitchen where I can get a look at you.”

Keeping one eye on the wolf, Skylan followed the sound of the voice. He entered a second room, which was dominated by a large fireplace. Owl Mother stood by the fire, stirring something in an iron pot.

Owl Mother was old, the oldest person in the village. She claimed to have seen seventy winters, and everyone believed her. Her hair was snow white, twisted in a long braid that extended below her waist. She wore a linen smock with a plain woolen gown over that, tied at her waist with a belt. With her hunched shoulders, beaky nose, and piercing eyes, she looked like a fierce old owl, though that was not how she had come by her name. She was called Owl Mother because of her way with animals.

“Sit,” she said, and pointed a crooked finger at a three-legged stool.

Skylan had to first displace the stool’s occupant, a squirrel, who raced across the floor and climbed a post that led to the rafters. He took his seat, looking about the shadowy longhouse, wondering uneasily what other creatures might be present. Owl Mother was known to consort with the fae folk who inhabited the woods.

Apparently the old woman was alone. He saw no gnomes lurking beneath
the table, nor were imps cavorting around the fireplace. He did note that one corner of the room was concealed by a tapestry hanging from the rafters. The tapestry appeared to be very old, for it was worn and frayed in places. He regarded it with interest, for it portrayed a battle with warriors clad in strange-looking armor.

Owl Mother bent over him, examining the wound, sniffing at it and probing it with her fingers. She was not at all gentle. Skylan gritted his teeth and tried to keep silent, though now and then a grunt escaped him.

Finally Owl Mother straightened. “You had the good sense to use the salve. The wound will heal cleanly. Bathe in the sea every day, smear on the salve, eat red meat to restore the blood, and keep to your bed for three days. Do all that, and you will suffer no lasting effects.”

“I thank you, Owl Mother,” said Skylan respectfully. “But I don’t have three days. We are lighting the beacon fire to summon the warriors of the Heudjun to come to our aid. There will be a battle with the ogres tomorrow, and I must lead the Torgun to war.”

Owl Mother stood with her thin lips pursed, staring down her nose at him. “You want magic,” she said at last.

Not really, Skylan thought, but he didn’t seem to have much choice.

“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “What does it involve?”

“It will cost you,” said Owl Mother, crossing her arms over her breasts.

Skylan frowned. He had a few silver ingots and coins in his coffer, but he was saving all his wealth to pay the bride-price for Aylaen.

“I don’t want your silver!” Owl Mother scoffed, seeing the doubt on his face. “You must agree to serve me for one day, do whatever I ask of you. Don’t worry,” she added dryly, “I won’t ask you to dance with me naked in the moonlight.”

Skylan’s face burned. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be polite, but he couldn’t imagine a more repulsive sight.

Owl Mother laughed at him. “I need a man for only one thing these days, and that’s to help me with chores. There’s wood to be chopped and pens to be mended and—”