Bones of the Dragon Page 43

  Skylan slowly and reluctantly looked to where she pointed. At first he couldn’t see anything, and then he stared, sick with dismay at the sight of masses of beautiful, luxuriant, flame-red curls lying in a shining heap on the ground.

  “We will join you on the ship at dawn,” said Treia.

  She shut the door in his face.

  Skylan was tempted to batter the door down, but what would he do then? He picked up one of the shining curls and smoothed it between his fingers.

  He let it fall to the ground and walked slowly home.

  Skylan wasn’t the only person roaming the woods that night. Wulfe had been visiting Owl Mother, telling her everything that had happened during the Kai Moot and after. The two worked as they talked. Wulfe ground leaves in a stone bowl. He tied bunches of lavender and hung them from the ceiling to dry, pausing often to sniff hungrily at the stewpot.

  Owl Mother had little to say, but Wulfe knew she was listening to him, because every so often she would chuckle and talk about people sticking their heads into hornets’ nests or wading hip-deep in bogs of their own making.

  Wulfe talked until he didn’t have any more to say. He teased the wyvern to make it snap its beak at him, for which he was scolded by Owl Mother, who fed him a bowl of stew and told him he was welcome to spend the night, if he didn’t mind sleeping on the floor.

  Wulfe thanked Owl Mother, but said he had to leave. The Torgun were sailing to war tomorrow, and Wulfe planned to go with them.

  Owl Mother eyed him. “I’m surprised Skylan agreed to take you.”

  “He didn’t,” Wulfe said calmly. “He thinks I’m staying with you while he’s gone. He won’t know I’m on board until it’s too late to send me back.”

  “The warriors will be armed with axes and swords and spears,” said Owl Mother. “The ship will stink of iron.”

  “I know,” Wulfe said, shuddering, “I don’t want to go. But I have to. I’ve been thinking about it, you see, and I realized that Skylan is my geas.”

  Owl Mother grinned. “Your geas? What evil daemon laid such a thankless charge upon you as that young man?”

  “No daemon laid it on me!” Wulfe protested indignantly. “I saved Skylan’s life. His wyrd is in my care.”

  “You just take care of yourself,” Owl Mother told him. She paused in her work and fixed him with her shrewd gaze. “And remember our lessons.”

  Wulfe nodded gravely. “I’ll bring you back a present, Owl Mother. What would you like? A sack of rubies?”

  “Bring yourself back,” Owl Mother stated grumpily. “And that fool Skylan. He might end up being worth something someday.” She snorted. “Geas indeed!”

  Owl Mother walked with Wulfe to the door. She kissed him on his forehead, reminding him of his mother. Putting both hands on his shoulders, she looked him in the eyes.

  “The druids meant well, Wulfe, but they were wrong. Your gift is just that—a gift, not a curse. Use it. Use it well. Use it sparingly. But use it. Don’t be afraid. Do you understand?”

  Wulfe gazed at her, wide-eyed. He wasn’t sure he did understand, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and so he gave an abrupt nod and then hurried into the night.

  Wulfe liked being out alone in the darkness. He had never been afraid of the dark, perhaps because night wasn’t all that dark to him. The lambent gleam of moon and stars, mingled with the soft radiance of life that shone from trees and grass and flowers and animals, lit Wulfe’s way. It had been nighttime when his father and his father’s family had changed from their wolf forms into humans. And it had been night when his faery mother, in all her shimmering splendor, had come dancing through the darkness to sing lullabies to her child.

  Walking through the forest, Wulfe saw the dryads slumbering in the boughs of their trees, and he bade them a silent farewell. He said good-bye to the naiad, who lay in her stream, her head pillowed on a smooth stone, the water running sensually over her naked body. She murmured in her sleep, and stretched out in languishing slumber. He encountered a pack of wolves, and he spoke to them politely, but they were hungry and searching for food and they had no time for him.

  He took the path that led past Treia’s dwelling. He always kept an eye on her, though at this time of night she would be asleep. He padded softly up to the door, put his ear to it, and listened. Not hearing anything, he started to continue on. Something jumped out at him, a hand grabbed hold of his arm, and another clapped over his mouth and dragged him into the underbrush.

  “Wulfe! Ouch, damn it, don’t bite me! It’s Garn. Be quiet. I’m not going to hurt you. I thought I might find you sneaking about here tonight. I’ve seen you watching Treia’s house before. What are you doing here?”

  Wulfe stared at him in quivering silence and did not answer. He tensed, poised for flight the moment Garn let him loose.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter,” said Garn, sighing. “The truth is, I’ve been waiting for you. I need you to do something for me.”

  Wulfe waited, not about to commit himself.

  “I need to see Aylaen, and Treia won’t let anyone inside,” Garn continued. “She just sent Skylan away. I was thinking you might be able to sneak in without waking Treia, tell Aylaen I have to talk to her.”

  “I can do that,” Wulfe said cautiously.

  “Will you do it?” Garn asked, and he sounded wistful.

  Wulfe thought it over and nodded. He waited with Garn, both of them silent, until Garn deemed that Treia must have gone back to bed. Wulfe sneaked across the clearing in front of the longhouse. He paused a moment to stare curiously at the tangle of red curls on the ground and then, shrugging to himself, continued on.

  He pushed gently on the door, and it yielded to his touch. He slipped inside. The fire had been doused, the stewpot cleaned out and put away, for both women would be leaving tomorrow. Wulfe paused, trying to find his way around, when he saw Aylaen’s head, pale and shimmering, floating disembodied in the darkness.

  Wulfe was panic-stricken until he realized Aylaen was sitting on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her. She was not asleep. Her shadowed eyes stared at him.

  “Wulfe?” she whispered, her voice muffled as though she had been crying. “What do you want? Skylan’s not here. He left.”

  “Garn is here,” Wulfe whispered back. “He’s outside. He wants to talk to you.”

  Treia stirred in her sleep, muttering something. Aylaen clasped hold of Wulfe’s wrist. Her fingers were cold and smooth, like he imagined the fingers of the draugr. He didn’t like her touch, and he squirmed out of it. Treia settled back down. Aylaen gave a wistful sigh.

  “Is he very angry with me?” she asked.

  Wulfe shrugged. He had no way of knowing, nor did he particularly care.

  “Tell him . . . No.” Aylaen abruptly threw off the blanket and stood up. “I’ll tell him.”

  She walked almost as softly as Wulfe. The two slipped out the door. Wulfe pointed to where Garn waited amidst the trees.

  “Thank you,” said Aylaen, and she added sharply, “You can run along now.”

  Wulfe trotted away obediently. When he’d gone a short distance, he turned around and doubled back, placing himself where he could see and hear.

  “Skylan was wrong when he asked you to undergo the ritual, Aylaen,” Garn was saying. “He knows that now. He made a mistake. You don’t have to do this for him—”

  “For him?” Aylaen repeated, amazed. She ran her hand over her shorn head. “I didn’t do this for Skylan!”

  “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 explaine
d. “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 heave
ns.

  “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.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  The 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.