Skylan gave a groan.
“We will make a wager. If I win this game, we quit,” he bargained. “You will go away and leave me in peace.”
The draugr gazed at him with her lifeless eyes and said nothing. Skylan did not know if they had a bet or not. He could only hope. His terror was starting to wane, and he forced himself to concentrate on the game. He faced the draugr defiantly and rolled the first bone. Marking where it fell, he placed his bone on the path.
The draugr picked up five bones in her withered, bloodstained hand and made ready to toss them.
“What are you doing? That’s cheating,” Skylan said angrily. “You can’t start by putting five bones into play.”
The draugr threw the five bones onto the board. She picked them up, one by one, and moved them into position, then reached her hand across the board toward him.
Skylan shrank back from the horrible touch. The draugr picked up five of his bones and held them out to him. When he hesitated, unwilling to take them, she thrust them at him. Skylan held out his hand, shuddering as the draugr’s icy nails brushed his skin.
He was apparently to throw five bones. He did so, and he placed them according to the fall. Play proceeded, with Skylan scrambling to try to figure out the new rules.
The dragonbone game had many variations. Every clan played by its own rules, some versions actually taking on the names of the clan that originated them, such as the Torgun Bone-Toss, the Heudjun Triple, and the Margen Cliff Fall. Skylan could only assume the draugr had made up her own variant, which, sadly, made the game exceedingly more complicated.
Competitive by nature, with a warrior’s need to win, Skylan almost forgot he was battling a corpse. He took his time, thought over each move, and played an extremely good game. The draugr was skilled, as well. The game ended in a draw.
The draugr rose silently and walked into the darkness.
Skylan collapsed, falling onto the board, scattering the pieces. He was too exhausted to move, and Wulfe found him asleep like that.
The next night, the draugr came to play the game again.
The dragonship sailed on through the unrelenting fog. Skylan could not see the sun, and he kept track of the days by carving marks on the rail. The draugr came every night, and though Wulfe was terrified of the draugr and wished she would go away, the boy was at least consoled by the fact that Skylan no longer made him play dragonbones. After three nights of playing with the draugr, Skylan threw the board and pieces into the sea.
The next night the board and pieces were back in their usual place and so was the draugr. She now played one game and one game only. She almost always won, though sometimes Skylan was able to battle to a draw. He never defeated her.
She continued to play the Five-Bone variant. The draugr insisted on this and even made a sort of ceremony out of the start, lining up the five dragonbones in front of her, picking up each one with exaggerated deliberation, and throwing them down one at a time. She insisted on lining up Skylan’s five dragonbones in front of him, watching him intently as he swept them up in his hand and gave them a careless toss.
Other than the nightly games, which Skylan came to dread with all his heart and soul, there was nothing to do on board the fog-bound ship except eat and sleep and talk to Wulfe. The boy was happy to relate the history of his eleven years. Skylan would have been happier if the boy had told the truth, but at least the version Wulfe recounted was entertaining.
“I’ve lived with the druids since I was four and they found me running with the wolves.”
“Wolves? What were you doing with wolves?”
“They raised me,” said Wulfe.
Skylan grinned. “Wolves raised you?”
“They were my family,” Wulfe said with a sadness he had never quite managed to overcome. “One was my father.”
Skylan snorted in disbelief.
“I’m not lying,” Wulfe said.
“You expect me to believe your father was a wolf?”
“My father wasn’t always a wolf. He was an Ugly One, like you. He was in the woods one day, stalking a deer, and not watching where he was going. He stepped inside a ring of mushrooms.”
Skylan shook his head. All knew that a ring of mushrooms—a faery ring, as it was known—was a deadly trap set by the fae to capture men, one to be avoided at all costs.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He tried to escape, but the more he struggled, the deeper he sank. He was buried up to his neck. That night, the faeries dragged him out. They tied him up in cobweb and took him to their realm and made him one of their slaves. He was working in the palace of the faery queen when he met my mother. She was a princess and the most beautiful woman my father had ever seen. She had never met a mortal before, for the faery queen had kept her daughter hidden away from the Ugly Ones—”
“Why do you call us that?” Skylan interrupted.
“It’s what the faeries call you,” Wulfe explained.
“We’re not ugly,” Skylan protested.
“Compared to the faeries you are,” said Wulfe.
“How do you know? Have you ever seen a faery?” Skylan challenged, laughing.
“I saw my mother,” Wulfe said. “She is more beautiful than you can imagine. I saw my grandmamma, too, but she was hideous. Should I go on with my story?”
“Go ahead. I don’t have anything better to do,” Skylan said, sighing.
“My father fell in love with my mother and she fell in love with him. They kept their love a secret a long time, but then my mother discovered I was coming and she was terrified, for she knew the faery queen would be furious at the thought of her daughter bringing an Ugly One into the world. My parents tried to escape, but they were caught by my grandmamma’s guards, terrible spiders that bound them up in cobweb.
“The queen locked my mother away and cast a curse upon my father and all his family, turning them into wolves. When I was born, my grandmamma gave me to my father and the wolf pack to raise. She forbade my mother to see me or have anything to do with me. My mother disobeyed. She would come to me in the night and hold me in her arms and sing to me.”
A tear slid down Wulfe’s cheek.
“My mother was so miserable that once she took me to the faery realm to introduce me to my grandmamma. She hoped that when the queen saw me, she would relent and forgive my mother and let me live with them. My grandmamma hated me. She said I was the ugliest of Ugly Ones. My mother wept and begged, but the queen threw me out. I lived with the wolves until the day the druids found me and took me away to live with them. I never saw my mother or father again after that.”
“What was it like, living with the druids after being raised by wolves?” Skylan meant the question as a joke, but Wulfe took him seriously.
“I hated it,” he said, but then he shrugged and added, “I think the druids hated it more. I was a lot of trouble. I walked on all fours, you see, and I tore off my clothes and I would crap on the floor. I ate only raw meat, and I ran away lots of times.”
“You look and act like one of us now,” Skylan observed dryly. “An Ugly One.”
“Sometimes I do,” Wulfe muttered. “Sometimes I don’t.” He thrust out his lower lip in a pout. “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”
“I think you have a vivid imagination. You should be a bard—”
“Oh yeah? Watch this.”
Wulfe jumped up and pulled off his robe, dragging it over his head. Dropping to the deck, he began to scamper about naked on all fours. Skylan stared in astonishment. The boy did not crawl on his hands and knees like a baby. He balanced on his hands and the balls of his feet and ran with his knees slightly bent, his rear end up and his head down. In this position, he moved faster than most people would have been able to manage on two legs.
“How do you do that?” Skylan asked.
“The wolves ran on all fours,” said Wulfe. “I didn’t know any different, you see. I thought I was one of them.”
He looked downcast
and stood up with a sigh. He did not seem the least bit uncomfortable or embarrassed about his nakedness. He was cold, however, and so he put on his robes again.
“Look at this if you don’t believe me.” Wulfe showed Skylan his hands.
The boy’s palms were hard and covered with thick calluses, reminding Skylan of a dog’s pads. He glanced at the boy’s toes, which were unusually long. Skylan looked into Wulfe’s strange yellow eyes, and he had a sudden, vivid picture of this boy running naked with the wolf pack.
“The druids named you Wulfe because . . .”
“They found me with the wolves, stupid,” said Wulfe. He frowned at Skylan. “I’ve never told anyone that story. The elder said I mustn’t. He said they’d hate me if I did. They would think I was moonstruck and they would be afraid of me and might hurt me. Do you think I’m moonstruck?”
“You think I’m a murderer, don’t you?” said Skylan.
“Maybe,” said Wulfe.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“A little.”
“I guess I’m afraid of you a little,” Skylan said with a wan smile. “But I won’t hurt you.”
“And I won’t hurt you,” said Wulfe earnestly.
Skylan almost started to laugh, then he looked at the boy with the strange yellow eyes who could run like a wolf on all fours, and he thought better of it.
They ate food that was damp from the fog, and when there was nothing else to do, they went to bed. Skylan watched Wulfe crawl round and round among the blankets, making a nest, before finally settling down. The boy fell asleep immediately, no tossing and turning. When he slept, his feet and hands twitched, and he made growling sounds. Skylan took to sleeping on deck.
He lay awake, listening to the water gliding beneath the keel, feeling the motion of the ship over the waves, and staring into the darkness that was thick and damp, and seemed to congeal on his skin.
The dragonship sailed on, ghostly in the fog.
CHAPTER
15
The fog bank, damp and chill, rolled in from the north, sweeping over the sea and moving onto land to shroud the village of Luda in a gray, dank mist. The fog came up so rapidly that it overtook those working in fields or pastures, blotting out the sun, obliterating landmarks. Many lost their way in the thick and blinding cloud, following the road east when they should have taken it west, blundering into forests that should not have been there, coming within a hairsbreadth of stepping off the side of a cliff.
Those in the village built bonfires in the streets and rang bells to guide the lost back home. Norgaard said a grateful prayer to Torval when the last wanderer stumbled safely into the village. People stood in their doorways and watched the tendrils of mist writhe past their houses and wondered uneasily what this unnatural weather portended. The Vindrasi were accustomed to fog, but only in the winter. No one could ever recall such a phenomenon occurring this time of year, especially after days of hot, glaring sun.
Among those caught by the fog were Garn and Aylaen. They, alone, did not mind it. The two had been working in the fields, but when the fog brought their work to an enforced halt, they slipped away to meet in a secluded grove.
Skylan’s marriage had removed the last impediment to their happiness, or so Aylaen had finally managed to convince Garn. He knew Skylan did not love Draya, knew that his friend loved Aylaen. Even though Skylan’s love was now hopeless, Garn could not quiet the feeling that he was betraying his friend by loving the woman he loved.
Aylaen had only laughed at his qualms and led him to what was known as Lovers’ Grove. That day had been hot and cloudless. When they reached the grove, Aylaen unpinned the brooches on her dress and drew it off. She took off her smock, shook down her long hair, and stood naked before him.
“I love you,” she said simply, and held out her hands to him.
Garn’s passion overcame him. The two were now lovers, and not a day had passed since but that they managed to find time to slip away, take pleasure in each other’s arms.
Aylaen had a secret motive for giving herself to Garn, one she didn’t tell him. Since the man to whom she had once been all but betrothed was now married, Aylaen was again on the marriage market. Her stepfather, Sigurd, was shopping around for a husband for her. He would not even consider Garn, who was an orphan with no property or wealth. But if Aylaen were to become pregnant with Garn’s child, Sigurd would have no choice except to allow them to marry. He would be furious, but Aylaen didn’t care. Let him rage. Let him beat her, even. She would have her reward. She would have Garn, and she would have his child. She was bitterly disappointed, after they’d been lovers for a fortnight, to feel the cramps that presaged her monthly bleeding.
She reflected that she had time. Even if Sigurd found a prospect, negotiations for a marriage sometimes dragged on for months.
The day the thick fog settled on the land, she and Garn smiled at each other and drew the mists over them like a woolly blanket. They lay twined together, keeping each other warm. Only when they heard the ringing of the bells—a clanging, tinny, desperate sound—did Garn realize that they would be missed, people would be worried about them. Norgaard might even send out search parties.
Aylaen tried to pull him down on top of her again.
“We don’t have to go. Not yet,” she pleaded.
“People are lost,” Garn said. “What a strange sound the bells make in the fog,” he added with a shiver, pulling on his trousers. “Not like bells at all. More like daemons clamoring.”
“They sound like bells to me,” muttered Aylaen angrily.
Garn helped her to her feet. She shook free of his grip and smoothed down her skirts over her bare legs. Then, seeing him smile, she relented and threw her arms around him and gave him one more passionate kiss. Holding fast to each other, the two followed the narrow path that led out of the grove. The fog was thick around them, and they were forced to grope their way through the woods.
“Our lives are like this,” said Garn. “Shrouded in time, we exist only in the moment. Nothing lies ahead of us and nothing behind. If I turned around, I would lose my way. If I let go your hand, I would lose you. I could take a misstep and tumble off a precipice—”
“We’re nowhere near a precipice,” said Aylaen practically. “And we’re not lost. This path leads straight to the road and once we hit the road, we turn right and take it back to the village. Dratted brambles!” She sucked the blood from a long jagged scratch on the back of her hand. “Stop talking nonsense and watch where you’re going, Garn. You dragged me into a bush!”
They finally struck the road and turned right, but in this cloud-bound world, nothing looked familiar, and though Aylaen was confident they were headed for the village, she took comfort in the clanging of the bells and the calls and shouts of their clansmen.
The bonfires came in sight, orange smudges in a gray landscape, and Garn and Aylaen sighed in relief. Seeing Sigurd and her mother standing by the fire, Aylaen swiftly let go of Garn’s hand.
“We mustn’t be seen together. I’ll meet you tomorrow, my love!”
Garn obediently fell behind, to let her hurry on ahead of him. She was heading toward the bonfire, walking slowly, for she was loath to encounter her stepfather, when a hand clutched her out of the mists.
“Aylaen! Here you are! I am so glad!” Treia whispered fervently. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Aylaen was startled. Her sister, usually calm and composed, was trembling. “Treia! What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . .” Treia hesitated, glancing around, seeing people watching them. “I can’t see in the fog. You must be my eyes.”
“Of course, Treia,” said Aylaen, holding fast to her sister’s hand.
“You took a wrong turn,” she said after a moment. “This isn’t the way to your house.”
“I know. We’re not going home. We’re going to the shore,” Treia said.
“Why there?” Aylaen asked, but her sister did not answer.
Her
fingers dug into Aylaen’s; her grip on her sister tightened. Aylaen wondered if perhaps men had gone out fishing and were lost in the fog at sea. But if that were the case, the people would be building bonfires on the shore to guide them home, and no one was doing that.
The sisters walked in silence. Treia refused to speak, and Aylaen’s thoughts were on Garn, on the touch of his hands and the warmth of his kisses.
Treia startled her by saying abruptly, “You have taken Garn for your lover, haven’t you?”
Aylaen didn’t know how to respond. She would have been glad to confide her hopes and dreams to a sympathetic sister. Treia was far from that. She had always coldly rebuffed any attempts at closeness.
“I saw you two come out of the woods together.” Treia cast Aylaen a scathing glance. “And the back of your dress is covered in leaves and dirt.”
Aylaen’s cheeks burned. She belatedly brushed off the telltale evidence.
“Sigurd will never let you marry him,” Treia said.
“He will if I’m carrying Garn’s child,” Aylaen said, tossing her red hair.
Treia glanced at her sharply. “So that’s the reason.”
“And because I love him!” Aylaen added in blushing confusion. “I love Garn with all my heart.”
“Whereas Garn loves you with his whole being. He’ll soon come to realize what you’ve done, how you used him. You’ll end up destroying him.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re jealous!” Aylaen cried, stung by her sister’s cruel words. “Because no one loves you!”
Treia paled. Her lips tightened. She angrily cast off Aylaen’s hand and stalked off on her own.
“Treia, I’m sorry,” said Aylaen remorsefully, catching up to her sister. “I didn’t mean it. You’ll find someone. I know you will.”
“There is no need to patronize me,” Treia retorted. “Sigurd tells me I am too old and half-blind.”
“Sigurd has cow turd for brains!” Aylaen cried, burning with indignation.
Treia’s mouth twitched. She rarely smiled, never laughed, but she almost did that time. Aylaen squeezed her sister’s hand in apology, and the two walked together onto the dunes. The beach was eerily silent. The air was thick and weighed heavily on the still water. Wavelets left bits of foam on the sand.
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