Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Due to the haste of the wedding, Skylan had not had time to commission the wedding ring. Norgaard, with considerable effort, removed his own ring from his gnarled finger and gave it to his son. Father and son embraced. Norgaard spoke a few words of love and pride that brought tears to Skylan’s eyes.

  Skylan clasped Garn in a bear hug.

  “Did you talk to Aylaen?” he asked in a low tone.

  Garn returned the hug. “Aylaen wishes you joy, Skylan. As do I, my brother. With all my heart.”

  Skylan was impatient. “I know that. But Garn, did you talk to her about coming to Vindraholm—?”

  Garn pretended not to hear. “It is time for the ceremony. Look outside. Everyone is waiting to honor you.”

  Skylan could see that. The road in front of the dwelling was filled with friends, relations, comrades. Garn clapped Skylan on the shoulder and then led his friend forth. Skylan walked out of the shadowy dwelling, emerging, blinking, into the bright sunlight, to be greeted with rousing cheers. Skylan forgot about Aylaen, forgot everything except what he owed to the god.

  He placed his hand on the silver amulet and whispered, “Thank you, Torval! I will try to be worthy of your faith in me. I swear on my life!”

  The warriors would not permit Skylan to walk to the sacred grove. They hoisted him up on their shoulders and carried him through the streets. Women flung blossoms at him. Men sang the old songs that always accompanied the bridegroom to his wedding.

  The grove was a sacred place of ancient lineage. Located well inland from the sea, the grove stood in a small valley surrounded by forests and grassy hills. Twelve enormous oaks formed an irregular circle at the bottom of the valley. Although these oaks were tall and straight and would have made excellent timber for the dragonships, no one even thought of cutting them. Every clan had its own sacred grove, but none were as old or honored as this one. Gogroth, God of the World Tree, was said to have planted the oaks in honor of the gods.

  Early that morning, Bone Priestesses carried the statue of Vindrash to the grove and placed the statue in the center of a large sward of cut green grass. Acolytes decorated the statue with flowers, and the Bone Priestesses blessed the grove and invited the gods and goddesses to attend the wedding.

  After the grove had been consecrated, the Heudjun and their guests from other clans crowded into the shadows beneath the enormous arms of the spreading oaks. Weddings were joyous affairs, this one especially, for it was the wedding of the two most important people in the lives of the Vindrasi.

  Everyone was in a festive mood, able for a short time at least to put aside worries and problems. Those who had doubts about Skylan’s youth and inexperience kept silent. Skylan was Torval’s choice, and no one wanted to bring down the god’s wrath by daring to question his judgment. The people clapped and cheered when Skylan arrived.

  He took his place in front of the statue of Vindrash, together with his father, Garn, Bjorn, and Erdmun. Skylan scanned the crowd quickly, hoping to see Aylaen, but such was the press of people that he could not find her.

  Strains of music came from the grove, the sound of a harp played by Balin, Togogroth and bard. The crowd hushed, for the music heralded the coming of the bride. Skylan toyed restlessly with the hilt of the sword. He hoped the ceremony would be soon over and he could move on to the feasting and merriment. In the Chief’s Hall, he might have a chance to speak to Aylaen. Garn jabbed him with an elbow in the ribs, and Skylan ceased fidgeting.

  The bard appeared from among the trees, and behind him came two lines of Bone Priestesses, singing a song of praise to Vindrash. They took their places around the statue. Among them was Treia, who stood cold and aloof and slightly apart from the others. Skylan smiled at her, but either she did not see him, which was possible, given her weak eyesight, or she chose to ignore him.

  A hush fell over them. Customarily, Draya would have been escorted into the grove by her father or another male relative. She had no male relatives now living, however, and she had asked Sven to serve as her escort.

  Sven walked ahead of Draya, carrying a sword that was the bride’s traditional gift to the groom. Skylan had eyes more for the sword than for his future wife. Whereas the sword a groom gives his bride is ancestral, the sword a bride gives the groom is supposed to be newly forged.

  Admittedly Draya had not had time to have one specially made for her husband, but she could have purchased or bartered a sword from a clansman. Skylan glanced at Draya as she walked behind her escort, and he was amazed to see she wore her hair unbound, as a maiden would do on her wedding day.

  Draya’s pale hair was long and fell about her shoulders. She wore the traditional crown woven of sweet-smelling grasses adorned with flowers. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked pleased and happy. Skylan trusted he and she would get on well together.

  We will, he decided, so long as she leaves me alone and does not interfere with my plans.

  Skylan studied the sword. Sven stood opposite Skylan. As Skylan eyed the weapon critically, he met Sven’s gaze. Sven looked very stern and grave, as befitted his solemn duty as escort. He could see Skylan’s interest in the sword, and the older warrior must have known what Skylan was thinking. Sven slightly altered his grip on the sword’s hilt so that Skylan could get a good view of it.

  Seeing Skylan’s frown, Sven gave a half smile and a small shrug and said softly, “It will look well hanging on your wall, lord.”

  The sword, with its jeweled hilt, was a lovely thing, but swords weren’t meant to be lovely. Skylan could tell from looking at it that it would not go two rounds with an enemy before breaking. He suppressed his disappointment, reminding himself that he was now wealthy enough to commission his own sword, have one made to his liking.

  Draya came to stand at his side. A Bone Priestess came forth to conduct the ceremony. Skylan was startled and displeased to see it was Treia. Draya smiled meaningfully at him as Treia came to stand before them, and he realized that she had selected Treia as a compliment to him and his clan.

  Treia conducted the joyous ceremony with a chill formality that left everyone gasping, as though they’d been doused with icy water. Usually the wedding would have begun with the formal conclusion of negotiations between the families for the dowry, the bride-price, and so forth. Since this was not an arranged marriage between families, none of that was necessary. Skylan obtained the lands and property in the lord city of Vindraholm that were designated for the Chief of Chiefs. Draya, as Kai Priestess, had her own wealth, though most of it was bound up in the Kai.

  Treia began by calling the attention of the gods to the ceremony. She did this in a condescending tone that implied she would be astonished beyond measure if the gods actually responded. Taking a bundle of sage, she dipped it in mead and then splashed the mead on Draya, then on Skylan. She next splashed mead on the bride’s party and then on the groom’s. In ancient times, the liquid would have been blood from a sheep or some other animal that had been sacrificed to Torval. That practice was now considered barbaric and had been outlawed.

  Skylan began to blink. Treia had flung the mead into his eyes, and it stung. Treia, having called upon the gods to be witness to the couple’s union, now turned her unfocused gaze on Skylan. He knew a moment’s panic. She was waiting for him to say or do something, but he couldn’t remember what.

  Garn bumped Skylan’s hand so that it brushed against the hilt of his sword, and Skylan remembered. He drew the ancestral sword and, holding it by the blade, presented it hilt-first to his bride.

  Draya took the sword, handling it clumsily, for it was old and heavy. “I will keep this in trust for our son,” she said softly, her cheeks flushing.

  Skylan almost laughed. An old woman of over thirty winters talking of having sons!

  Draya took the sword from Sven and gave it to Skylan. He knew what was expected of him, and he pretended to admire it, all the while thinking Sven was right. It would look well upon a wall, which was where he intended to keep it.

  He w
as in a good humor, and he smiled at Draya in thanks. She smiled back, her blush deepening. Were she ten years younger, she might almost have been pretty.

  Treia called for the exchange of rings and the taking of the vows. Skylan placed the ring on the tip of the sword and extended the sword to Draya. She took the ring from the sword and, after some fumbling, placed her ring on the tip of his ancestral sword and held it out to him. He slid the ring that had been his mother’s onto her finger. She pushed the ring onto his or tried to, for his hands were large and the ring did not fit. It would have to be remade. He clasped the ring in his hand and placed his hand upon the sword’s hilt. Draya placed her hand over his. Her fingers trembled. Her hands were clammy.

  The two of them knelt before the statue of Vindrash.

  In accepting the bride’s sword, Skylan accepted responsibility for her. He vowed to Torval to protect her and keep her. Draya vowed to Vindrash to be faithful to her husband and care for him, be his guide and advisor.

  The ceremony ended with Treia summoning the gods to witness the couple’s vows.

  “I call upon all to join in celebrating the union of Draya Nerthusson, Kai Priestess, and Skylan Ivorson, Chief of Chiefs of the Vindrasi.”

  Skylan and Draya rose to their feet. Draya smiled tremulously. She seemed to want to keep hold of Skylan’s hand, but he managed to disentangle himself from her grasp. This was the first time he had heard his title formally announced. The people were cheering him. His heart swelled, ready to burst with pride. He lifted his arms, with the sword in one hand, to acknowledge the cheers.

  Under cover of clapping, Garn leaned over to whisper, “The wedding kiss.”

  Skylan had been hoping to avoid that. Draya was still standing beside him, looking at him expectantly. He leaned near, about to kiss her on the mouth, when he caught sight of Aylaen. She had managed to squirm her way through the crowd and now stood smiling happily beside Treia.

  Skylan shifted his kiss from Draya’s mouth to her cheek. Relieved that this was over, he turned back to Garn and the other men, who were shoving forward, eager to receive his notice. He grinned and rubbed his hands in satisfaction and to remove the feel of Draya’s clammy touch.

  “Now,” announced Skylan, grinning, “we will have some fun.”

  The afternoon of the wedding was spent in games of skill. Men and boys showed off their prowess in various contests such as axe-throwing, wrestling, footraces, and battles with blunt-edged swords. There was even a mock shield-wall. Groups of Heudjun and Torgun warriors good-naturedly pushed and shoved, each clan trying to knock their opponents back across a line drawn in the dirt.

  Skylan, as groom, was not permitted to join the games. He was supposed to be saving his strength for the wedding night—a jest he pretended not to hear. The men called upon him to judge the contests, a role he took seriously and enacted fairly, which pleased the men, who said among themselves that this boded well for his future leadership.

  Unmarried women watched the games and cheered their favorites. Married women returned to the city to decorate the wedding bed with flowers and tease Draya about her handsome young husband. Then all the women and girls gathered together, laughing and gossiping, to prepare the feast.

  When the Goddess Aylis’s reddening rays shone through the treetops in the west, the men left their games and made ready for the feast. The groom’s party entered the Chief’s Hall first. Skylan barred the door with his new sword to prohibit the bride’s entry until he could assist her to cross the threshold in safety. The door to the hall represented the entry into the bride’s new life. A bride who stumbled over the threshold was considered to bring the worst possible luck to the marriage.

  He took Draya’s hand and led her over the threshold. She crossed without incident, and everyone applauded.

  Skylan sat down in the chair of honor at the head of one of the long tables. Draya performed her first duty as wife by serving her new husband mead in a bowl with two handles formed of dragons in honor of Vindrash. Skylan raised the bowl into the air, offering the first sip symbolically to Torval, and then he drank from it. He handed the bowl to Draya, and she raised the bowl to Vindrash before she drank. Everyone took up their drinking horns and drank to the health and happiness of the couple. After that, the feasting and merriment began in earnest.

  The hall was hot, noisy, and crowded. Once the ceremony of the loving cup was concluded, Skylan was free to enjoy himself. He searched the crowd and finally saw Aylaen sitting with her sister among a group of Bone Priestesses. Skylan caught Aylaen’s eye. She smiled at him, then turned back to an animated conversation with her sister and another woman.

  Skylan rose to his feet. Under cover of the laughter, he said in a low voice to Garn, “I’m going to go talk to Aylaen.”

  Garn seized hold of him by the sleeve. “No,” he said, “you’re not.”

  Skylan looked defiant, and Garn added emphatically, “A bridegroom does not leave his bride’s side during the feasting, Skylan, especially to go talk to an unmarried woman. It would be unseemly.”

  Skylan realized Garn was right, and he slowly sat back down in his chair.

  His new wife had seen him start to stand, and she turned to him, smiling. “Is everything to your liking, my husband? Do you want anything?”

  Draya leaned closer to him. Her leg pressed against his thigh. Skylan squirmed in his chair, moving as far from her as possible. Her hand moved toward his hand, and he quickly grabbed his knife and speared a hunk of meat and began to eat as though he were starving. Shortly after that, Treia left the feast and Aylaen went with her.

  The sun sank. The moon rose. The bard, Balin, sang of the joys of married life. Husbands and wives held hands and shared loving glances. The wedding day would end with the bedding of the happy couple.

  In anticipation of that, Skylan got very drunk.

  CHAPTER

  2

  In a torchlit procession, men of the bride’s party escorted Draya to the dwelling of the Chief of Chiefs, which was always in the lord city of Vindraholm. Horg’s possessions had been hastily removed, and the longhouse had been thoroughly cleaned by Fria. She had burned all the bedding, replaced it with new. The mattress was scented with perfumed oil, and women had spread flowers over the blankets.

  Draya’s friends led her to the dwelling. Once there, they removed her shoes and stockings, her surcoat and her dress, leaving her linen shift. She left the fond embraces of her friends and slipped demurely under the blankets and waited in heart-throbbing anticipation for her new husband.

  The groom’s procession—considerably rowdier than the bride’s—came next. Skylan had drunk a considerable amount of mead and ale, and he was unsteady on his feet. He draped his arms around his friends, and they lurched toward the longhouse, bawling out the bawdy songs that traditionally accompanied the bedding.

  Draya was not so drunk as Skylan, but she had also been drinking. The honey mead was sweet on her lips, and she looked forward with thrills of desire to more sweetness still. She had been unable to take her eyes off her handsome young husband. Draya did not even mind that Skylan was drunk. Unlike Horg, who was mean and surly when he was drinking, Skylan was boisterous and cheerful, fond of boasting of his exploits in battle to her or anyone who would listen. He even acted these out, jumping to his feet at one point during the feast to demonstrate with an eating knife how he had decapitated the ogre godlord.

  Draya’s friends opened the door to allow the men into the dwelling. Skylan’s friends removed his tunic and pulled off his boots, leaving him in his shirt and trousers. Then, lifting him up, they tossed him bodily onto the bed, where he lay roaring with laughter while his new wife lay blushing at his side. Men and women called out parting ribald jests and then left to return to the feast, which would last far into the night.

  Skylan lay on the bed, laughing and singing to himself. Draya’s blood burned. She drew near him. Sliding her hand beneath his shirt, she bent over to kiss him.

  “My husband .
. . ,” she breathed.

  The room was well lit, for the gods were meant to witness the consummation of the marriage. Skylan blinked at her blearily in the candlelight, as though only just now aware of her presence. He heard the husky note in Draya’s voice, saw the glow in her eyes, and felt her body tremble as she pressed against him. Skylan realized suddenly that Draya was in love with him.

  “I need a drink,” he mumbled. Scrambling out of bed, he left the bedchamber and stumbled into the kitchen, where he found a drinking horn and filled it with ale. He drank it off at a gulp.

  Skylan was shocked. A woman who had seen more than thirty winters had no business falling in love with any man! It was . . . unseemly. And she was a Priestess! She should be thinking of higher matters. He had not expected her to want to make love to him, and he was shaken. Hearing footfalls and the rustle of her gown, he poured himself more ale.

  “My husband,” said Draya, “my lord. Come back to our bed.”

  He turned to see her smiling at him, and then she lifted her hands and began to take off her shift, baring her breasts. Her breasts were small, the nipples covered with dark hair. She cupped her breasts with her hands, playfully offering them to him.

  I wish you joy! Aylaen had said to him.

  Skylan’s stomach heaved. He had made love to many women since he had come to manhood, but not since he had pledged himself to Aylaen. He tried telling himself Draya was just one more, but he couldn’t even look at her without disgust, much less touch her.

  It wasn’t just her age, though that was a factor. It wasn’t that she wasn’t Aylaen, though that was a major, major factor. Draya was Kai Priestess. He could still see her, pale and majestic, kneeling over Horg’s bloody corpse.

  “Go back to your bed,” he told her harshly. “I will sleep on the floor.”

  “My lord, don’t be silly,” said Draya, laughter bubbling in her voice. She stole up behind him and slid her hands beneath his shirt. Her cold fingers caused his flesh to shrivel. “You need not be afraid of hurting me. I am not a maid. I know how to please a man.”