Bones of the Dragon Page 32

Skylan laughed. “And bring your young women out of hiding to serve us,” he added. “We want to feast our eyes as well as our bellies.”

  The young men laughed, well pleased. They liked Skylan, who was proving himself a worthy Chief, and they crowded around him, vying for places of honor at his side.

  Skylan was pleased with himself. There were riches to be had here. He did not expect any resistance. These druids were, as Raegar had assured him, a cowardly lot.

  Speaking of Raegar, Skylan wondered if his cousin had abducted Draya yet and, if so, how long it would take him to smuggle her off the island. Skylan would wait for evening before he went back to the ship, he decided. When he discovered Draya missing, he would have to institute a search, and he did not want to take the chance of accidentally finding her.

  Skylan made no complaint, therefore, when the druid said apologetically that the grove where the feast would be held was some distance away. The walk would be a long one.

  The druid led Skylan and his men deep into the forest. The journey through the dark and gloom-ridden forest was not only long, it was also hot and tiresome. The air was damp, hard to breathe, the ground muddy and squishy underfoot. Tree branches creaked; leaves whispered. The path was narrow, forcing the warriors to walk single-file. Insects bit them, raising itchy bumps on their flesh. Their laughter and talk ceased. They could see things moving in the shadows. They were a long way from their dragonship.

  Skylan was starting to grow uneasy, and he was about to tell the druid sharply that he should hand over the silver and gold now or find a hole in his belly.

  The druid, seeming to read his thoughts, smiled at him. “The walk has been long, as I said, but it has ended now. The festive grove.” He made a sweeping gesture.

  The grove was the strangest Skylan had ever seen. At first he thought it was formed of a great many trees. Then he realized to his astonishment that it was only a single tree with an enormous trunk and long, branching limbs. The limbs were so long, extended so far out from the main trunk, that they needed smaller trunks to support them. The leaves were broad and green. It seemed to Skylan that he had entered a vast hall with living support beams holding a green, leafy roof. He stood and gawked at the astounding tree, and the young men with him did the same.

  “The tree is called a strangler fig,” said the druid. “The fruit is quite delicious.”

  “What magic is at work here?” Skylan demanded, frowning. “Such a tree is not natural.”

  He touched the amulet of Torval to keep himself safe.

  The druid chuckled. “The tree is as natural as the oak or the walnut, though the strangler fig is not, I admit, native to this part of the world. Strangler figs grow only in those lands where summer is endless. Many hundreds of years ago, however, some of our brethren happened to be visiting those lands. They took a fancy to the strangler figs and brought back a sapling.”

  The druid sighed, then smiled. “We have to work very hard to maintain the warm climate to which the tree is accustomed, particularly in the winter. But we find it is worth it.”

  Skylan had noticed that the air in the grove was even hotter and more humid than back in the forest. Sweat rolled down his face and neck. His linen shirt stuck to his skin, and he regretted wearing the sky-blue woolen cape. He scoffed at the notion that the druids ruled the weather. All knew the gods commanded the wind and the sun, sent the rain or withheld it, shook the snow out of the clouds, and kept the temperature of a cave the same year-round.

  The druid gestured to the inner portion of the grove, where people—the first Skylan had seen since landing, other than the druid—were setting up plank tables. “If you and your men will seat yourselves, lord . . .”

  “I will not go anywhere near that fae tree,” Skylan said, and behind him his young warriors were loud in agreement.

  The druid raised his eyebrows. A smile played about his lips, but he swiftly hid it by stroking his long mustache. Bowing in acquiescence, he left to instruct the men to move the tables.

  The warriors seated themselves. Young women came out from the shadows, bearing platters of roasted meat, bowls of stew, bread, large wheels of cheese, and pitchers of foaming ale. The bowls and plates and cups were carved out of wood, the knives made of deer horn. Skylan drank and ate and eyed the young women, especially one who had red hair and green eyes and reminded him of Aylaen.

  The people of Apensia dressed quite plainly. Their clothes were simple, drab in color, yet well made. The people appeared healthy and content and not at all afraid of the fearsome warriors who had come to kill them and steal their wealth. Skylan began to wonder if this was a settlement of simpletons.

  He looked hard at the women who waited on him. None of them wore jewelry. No silver bracelets or golden brooches, no jeweled hair combs. Some did wear rings, but they were carved of wood. These people had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to conceal their wealth, which meant it must be vast indeed!

  “More ale!” Skylan demanded, motioning to the red-haired girl and holding out his wooden mug.

  The ale was the best he’d ever tasted: dark and earthy. He did not drink to excess, thinking that since they were in a “hostile” land, he should remain sober. His young warriors felt no such compunction, however, and were refilling their mugs at regular intervals.

  Their faces flushed red, they pounded their fists on the table and boasted and laughed. Skylan joined in the merriment, telling tales of his past triumphs. The young men gazed at him, their eyes warm with admiration and strong drink. Raising their mugs to him, they bawled out their undying devotion.

  Tubbi called for yet more ale. As one of the young women started to pour, he jostled her arm, causing her to slosh the ale over his hand. Tubbi cursed in mock anger and, in “punishment,” seized the woman around the waist, dragged her onto his lap, and began to nuzzle her neck. His hand pawed at her breasts.

  One of the men who had helped set up the table started to go to the girl’s aid. Skylan saw the druid give a barely perceivable shake of his head. The man watched a moment more, then turned and walked off.

  Tubbi found this hilarious. “Come back! I’ll fight you for her!” he shouted, fumbling for his weapon as he tried at the same time to hold on to the girl.

  “Stop squirming!” he ordered her, giving her a kiss on the neck. “Be good to me, and I’ll show you the love of a real man, not the cowards you grow around here! If you are lucky, I might even get you pregnant with a warrior son!”

  Tubbi flung the young woman onto the table, and ignoring her pleas, he began to pull down his trousers. The warriors roared in approval. The other women were now trying to flee into the forest. The young men leaped to their feet and dragged them back.

  “Your men are out of control,” observed the druid mildly. “You should put a stop to this.”

  “My men are my men,” Skylan returned sternly. “We are the masters here! We will take your women and anything else we want unless you meet our demands.”

  He slammed down his mug and rose to face the druid. “What will you give me to leave you and your people in peace?”

  “Kill him, Skylan! It’s a trap!”

  Startled, Skylan turned to see who had yelled. He stared, stupefied. His cousin’s face was half covered with blood, but Skylan knew Raegar by his blond beard and hair. He was tied to one of the smaller trunks of the strange tree. Green vines wound about his body.

  “It’s a trap!” Raegar shouted. He flung himself against the vines. “Kill the old man!”

  Raegar’s shout jolted Skylan into action. He drew his sword and fell back.

  “Form the shield-wall!” he roared.

  He turned to rally his men and found he had no men.

  “I warned you,” the druid said, sighing.

  Their armor was there, leather and chain mail, lying on the grass. Their helms and swords and axes, shields and spears were there. Their boots and belts and tunics were there. His warriors had vanished.

  “What have you done with my m
en?” Skylan shouted hoarsely.

  The druid shook his head. “I have done nothing,” he said sadly. “It is the forest. It believed they were a threat to me and my people.”

  He pointed. Near each pile of armor and clothing crouched a rabbit, small body trembling, nose twitching, eyes round with terror.

  “Your men have been changed into hares. I’m sorry,” said the druid, and he truly sounded upset. “I tried to warn you.”

  Skylan staggered and nearly fell. He stared at the eighteen rabbits, and his mind revolted. “I don’t believe it. This is some sort of trick!”

  The druid shook his head. The rabbits twitched and stared at him. Skylan searched the shadows. He yelled and shouted, calling each man by name. No one answered. There was no sign of his warriors. The rabbits hopped aimlessly about, looking miserable. Skylan felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

  “Bring them back!” he ordered, his voice shaking. “Bring them back—or by Torval, I will rip you from gut to groin!”

  He started to swing his sword, only to feel the weapon plucked out of his hand. Skylan looked up. His sword hung from the branch of the tree. Blood Dancer dangled above his head, just out of reach.

  He grabbed hold of the hilt of his short sword, only to feel the hilt grab back. The sword was gone. A green-and-black snake coiled around his hand. Skylan let out a terrified cry and shook his hand until the snake fell to the ground.

  “You asked what I would give you to depart in peace, Skylan Ivorson,” said the druid with a gentle smile. “My answer is this: I will give you your life.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Draya stood with her cheek resting against the neck of the carved figurehead of the dragon, her hand resting on the spiritbone. She seemed to feel the dragon quiver. Looking up, she saw the red eyes fixed, staring straight ahead.

  “Priestess,” said one of the two men Skylan had left behind to guard her and the dragonship, “someone is coming.”

  Draya looked out to the shore to see four druids in gray robes walking over the sand.

  “Should we kill them, Priestess?” asked one of the young men eagerly, lifting his spear.

  “No,” said Draya quietly. “They mean me no harm.”

  The druids waded out into the water. They stood beneath the dragonship. Draya gazed down on them, her hand on the spiritbone.

  The four druids bowed low.

  “We come in the name of Vindrash,” said one. “We ask you to accompany us.”

  Draya clung to the dragon’s neck, her courage failing her. And then she heard another voice, one that had not spoken to her in many long days. Draya listened to the blessed voice, and her eyes filled with tears. She gave the dragon’s neck a caress and walked to the ship’s side.

  “Lower the gangplank,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t go with these druids, Priestess,” said one of the warriors sternly. “The Chief said you were to remain on the ship!”

  Draya managed a smile. “I do not want to offend them. I will go with them. The Chief . . .” She hesitated, then, giving a little sigh, she said, “He will understand.”

  The warriors did as she commanded and lowered the gangplank. Draya descended. The druids received her with every mark of honor and respect. One gave her his hand. She clasped it and, with firm step, walked alongside him through the water and onto the beach.

  The warriors watched Draya and her gray-robed escort vanish among the trees. The two conferred quickly.

  “The Chief of Chiefs must know about this,” said one, and the other agreed.

  They leaped over the side and went running across the beach toward the footbridge. They never reached Skylan. The forest dealt with them as it had dealt with the others.

  Draya paid no heed to her surroundings. Her vision had turned inward; she did not see the physical path she walked, did not feel it beneath her feet. Several times her escorts were forced to steady her stumbling steps or guide her around a fallen branch or prevent her from wandering into a bog.

  Her body weakened by sickness, she left it behind. Her restless, fomenting mind was calm, quiet, becoming like a pool of still, clear water in which she could see her own reflection. What she saw horrified her. She made herself confront the wretched, tortured being she had become. She looked steadfastly into the dark and sorrow-filled eyes. She listened to the silent, desperate wail of despair.

  She stopped walking only when the druid told her she had arrived.

  “Your journey has been a long and unhappy one,” the druid said in soft compassion. “We hope you find rest.”

  The druids departed, leaving her alone.

  For long moments she remained standing where they’d left her, coming to herself only when prodded by her body. She had to either sit down or fall down. She looked about and saw where she was. She gazed in wonder and awe.

  Loving care had transformed a small forest glade into a living shrine. Bay laurel trees, each standing taller than a man, filled the air with fragrance. The smooth ground was covered with green moss soft to the touch as the finest lamb’s-wool blanket. A fallen log covered with the same moss lay at the foot of an ancient oak tree and appeared to be a kind of throne. Violets bloomed amid the moss. White lilies and purple irises flanked the throne; red poppies flamed. The Sun Goddess filled the glade with light.

  The holiness, the sanctity of this blessed place soothed Draya’s spirit. She sank to her knees in the soft moss before the throne and closed her eyes and whispered brokenly, “Vindrash, forgive your wretched servant.”

  “My daughter,” said a voice, “I have waited long to hear those words.”

  Draya lifted her head. The Dragon Goddess shimmered into being before her. Clawed feet dug into the moss. Translucent wings were folded against her body. The long graceful tail trailed sinuously among the irises and the lilies. The gilded mane quivered and stirred. Scales the colors of ruby and sapphire, emerald and diamond sparkled in the sunshine, half-blinding in their radiance. The dragon’s head, balanced gracefully upon the long curving neck, was massive yet delicately formed. The eyes were large, and though they could flare fiery red orange with righteous anger, they were now soft pale yellow, incandescent with understanding and compassion.

  Draya had served the goddess all her life, and she had never seen her in her awful majesty and splendor. She realized that few mortals saw Vindrash like this. Draya was being honored, and that made her feel even worse.

  “I lost my faith in you, Vindrash,” said Draya. Her confession poured forth in a cleansing wave. “I did not trust you to know what was good for our people. I did not trust Torval to judge Horg in the Vutmana. I poisoned Horg and then hid my crime by making it appear as if Skylan had slain him.”

  Draya clenched her fists in her lap. “And I fear, Vindrash, that I did not kill Horg out of care for our people. I killed him because I hated and loathed him.”

  The dragon’s nostrils flared slightly. The jaws barely moved, the voice came as breath gliding through the sharp curved front fangs. The slit tongue flickered.

  “Do not judge yourself too harshly, Daughter,” Vindrash said morosely. “By judging yourself, you also judge us. And we are all found lacking.”

  “I would never judge you, Blessed One!” said Draya, shocked.

  “Yet you might be right to do so,” said Vindrash.

  The dragon fell into a brooding silence. Her wings spread and fanned the air, stirring the perfume of the bay leaves and the flowers. The breeze cooled Draya’s skin and dried the tears she did not know she had cried until she felt them on her cheeks. She felt calm, at peace.

  I could sleep, she thought. Sleep for a long time. Sleep and forget . . .

  “You vowed, Daughter, that you would do anything for me,” said Vindrash at last.

  “I did make that vow, Blessed Goddess,” Draya said. “And I make that vow again.”

  “Would you sacrifice your life?”

  “I would, Vindrash,” Draya said. She hesitated a moment, then, lowe
ring her head, she asked in a grave voice, “Is death to be my punishment, then?”

  “There is no talk of punishment, Daughter. If we punish you, we must also punish ourselves. And we are far too wise and puissant for that!” Vindrash added with bitter irony.

  The dragon’s tail switched moodily, back and forth.

  A druidess entered the grove. She held in her hands a wooden bowl, and she stood waiting in respectful silence for the goddess to acknowledge her presence.

  Vindrash gazed into Draya’s eyes, delving deep. “I need a place to hide,” said the goddess. “A body. Your body.”

  Draya looked at the druidess’s bowl, and her mouth went dry. Her heart constricted, her hands trembled, her stomach clenched. Her terror was reflexive—her body’s desperate need to survive. Her soul was strong and unafraid.

  “The sacrifice must be made willingly,” said Vindrash.

  “I am willing,” Draya replied.

  The druidess brought forth the bowl. Draya’s hands as they grasped hold of the bowl were steady and did not tremble.

  “I ask one favor, Blessed Vindrash,” Draya said. “Skylan is young and foolish. He has much to learn. But he is brave, with a warrior’s spirit and a noble heart. He will make a good leader. Be merciful to him. Our people need him.”

  “We fight for our very survival,” Vindrash returned sternly. “We do not have the luxury of mercy. Now that he is Chief of Chiefs, Skylan Ivorson must prove himself to be worthy of our trust or he will be swept aside to make room for another.”

  Draya gazed into the clear liquid. She saw reflected back to her a young girl, newly made Kai Priestess, facing the unknown, her eyes alight with joy and hope and faith.

  “Will you answer one question for me?” Draya asked.

  “If I can, Daughter,” said Vindrash.

  “Did Torval choose Skylan?”

  Vindrash was silent for long moments. Then she said quietly, “It doesn’t matter, Daughter. The wheel has turned. The thread is spun.”

  “Thank you, Vindrash,” said Draya. “For this and all your blessings.”

  She brought the bowl to her lips and drank long and deep.