The dragon shifted her head to regard him and he saw tears shining in her eyes.
And they are mine, said Ilyrion.
She glided over the waves and in the proudest moment of his life, the Dragon Kahg joined the Great Dragon Ilyrion in flight.
CHAPTER
48
Skylan Ivorson arrived at Torval’s Hall to find that it was gone, burned to the ground. An old man and an old woman stood together among the ashes. The bitter wind of coming winter caught the smoke that rose from the black, smoldering beams and blew it away. Skylan wondered who these two were for a moment and then, with a sorrowful heart, he recognized Torval and Vindrash.
The two had cast aside their armor and put down their weapons, for the long fight had ended. They were dressed in clothes such as wanderers wear, those who are going on a long journey, far from home.
“Ah, Fish Knife,” said Torval, catching sight of him. “Come to say good-bye?”
The god’s gray hair hung in two thick braids down his chest. He wore a simple leather tunic and a fur-lined cloak, leather trousers and boots, and a warm fur cap. His sword was gone. He carried a worn, gnarled walking stick.
Skylan was dismayed. “Do not leave us, lord! Ilyrion has returned. Aelon has fled!”
“Our time is ended here,” said Torval. “The world will be in good hands.”
“Better hands than ours,” said Vindrash.
Like Torval, she was dressed in a simple leather tunic and trousers with a fur cloak around her shoulders. Her silver-white hair was done in a single braid wrapped around her head.
Skylan looked for his friends. “Where are Garn and my father and Chloe and Acronis? I had hoped to join them.”
“They are in the care of others now,” said Vindrash. “Their peace and rest will be assured.”
Skylan shook his head in denial. “What of your friends, the other gods? What of them?”
“Sund is dead. In his madness, he killed himself. Joabis died, valiantly fighting to defend his souls. Hevis has vanished. We have no idea where he has gone. Skoval and Aylis and the rest wait for us beyond.”
“Let me come with you, lord,” Skylan begged. “Let me serve you still.”
Torval smiled, his blue eyes, almost lost in a web of wrinkles, warmed.
“I have worked long and hard and taken trouble to forge you, Skylan Ivorson,” said Torval. “I won’t cast you aside.”
“The world is going to change for the better, but our people will find the change difficult to bear,” Vindrash added. “They will need your wisdom and your guidance.”
Torval clapped Skylan on the shoulder. “You were an arrogant, selfish young fool, Fish Knife. Many times I despaired of you, but you came out better than I expected.”
“What he means is that you have made us proud,” said Vindrash.
Skylan could not talk for his grief, could scarcely see for his tears. And yet joy filled his heart, for he knew that he would live and he would go back to be with Aylaen. They would grow old together, old and toothless.
Torval rested a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes a hero is not one who gives his life for his people, but one who gives his life to his people. Remember that.”
“I will remember you, Torval,” said Skylan. “And I will honor you always. And when the span of our wyrds end, Aylaen and I will find you.”
Torval cast a troubled glance at Vindrash, who slightly shook her head. Coming to Skylan, she embraced him and kissed him on the cheek. Torval reached out his hand to her. They looked one last time at the wreckage of their Hall and then, clasping hands, they walked away.
Skylan wondered why they had looked at him so strangely and why Vindrash had kissed him so tenderly, as if she grieved for him. He pondered it as he went to visit the Norn, the three old women who spun and wove and cut the wyrds of men and gods at the foot of the World Tree.
The World Tree remained; it was flourishing. The Norn were nowhere to be found. They had packed up their spindles and their wheel and departed.
Skylan himself was about to leave when he saw something shining amid the roots of the World Tree: a pair of shears, the ends blunted, the blades rusted. A single thread, unbroken, stretched on and on.
Alone.
CHAPTER
49
The Great Dragon Ilyrion stood guard over the world until the Faceless God, Aelon, fled, never to return. Ilyrion bid farewell to Torval and the Vindrasi gods, bearing no grudge, feeling only a sorrowful melancholy for the fall of what once had been mighty. She gave greeting to the Gods of Raj, who watched her from a respectful distance, glad for her help, but eager for her to be gone.
Ilyrion flew over the empty, desolate plateau and the blood-soaked sand.
At the coming of the dragon, the soldiers cast down their weapons and ran. They would have a long trek home, for the Empire of Oran was many hundreds of miles to the north. Their magnificent fleet had been reduced to scraps of charred wood floating sluggishly on the waves. Flames had destroyed their tents and their food supplies and their wagons, leaving the survivors nothing except their lives.
Ilyrion let them go, not bothering to hunt them. With winter coming on, they would suffer enough.
Far below, a knot of priests huddled for shelter from the cold wind behind some rocks, crying out to Aelon to save them. Their prayers would go unanswered, of course. Eventually, cold and hungry, the priests would give up and start walking.
Ilyrion slowed her flight and circled in the air above the victors, a small band of warriors—ogres, Cyclopes, and Vindrasi—tending to their wounded, guarding their dead, and their fallen chief.
Ilyrion gazed down upon Skylan Ivorson with sorrow and fond pride. He had chosen his time to die and he would not understand, at first, why his choice had been denied him. He would come to, eventually, as he would come to understand the choice Aylaen had made.
Ilyrion dipped her wings in salute and then turned her head and left them. Gliding over sea and over land, she flew among the clouds and the rain, the sun and wind, gazing down upon the world she had loved and claimed as her own for so long. At her death, she had let her blood rain down upon the world. In her rebirth, she rained down her joy, with each drop bringing life to a world that had been withering, dying.
Her world restored, Ilyrion shifted her gaze to the heavens, to blazing stars and worlds unnumbered and the vast expanse of boundless, limitless time through which she could fly free for eons upon eons. She lifted her head and spread her wings and soared into the universe.
The Great Dragon Ilyrion was going home.
CHAPTER
50
Skylan was adrift on a burning sea. Flames spread over an oil-covered surface, so that he was forced to dive into the dark water to escape them. His lungs bursting, he swam back to the surface to breathe, only to be burned in the fire.
He battled for days it seemed, tormented by pain and fear, longing to sink below the waves and give up the struggle. Every time he tried to let go, a touch, a voice, would call him back.
And then one day he wearily swam again to the surface to find that the flames had gone out. The night had ended. The sun was shining.
He opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed with a colorful blanket spread over him in an unfamiliar place—a crude wooden hut. Sunlight streamed through a door that was little more than a hole in the wall. The air was warm and smelled of green living things and the sea.
“You have come back to us,” said Dela Eden.
She was sitting on the floor beside his bed, which he could now see was low to the ground. Rising to her knees, she placed her arm under his head and lifted him and pressed a cup to his lips.
“Drink this,” she said.
He was thirsty and he drank. The liquid had a slightly bitter taste, but it eased his thirst.
Dela Eden gently laid him back on the bed.
“I want to see Aylaen,” Skylan said.
He expected to hear his voice and was startled when the words came out
in a hoarse whisper.
“She is resting,” said Dela Eden.
“Is she all right? She is not hurt,” Skylan pressed.
Dela Eden smiled. “Drink some more. You have nearly burnt up with the fever.”
He obeyed, sipping the liquid and looking around at his strange surroundings. “Where am I?”
“You are in a hut in the Cyclopes village,” said Dela Eden. “We found you dead on the battlefield. The great dragon healed your wounds and we brought you here to tend to you. Now you must sleep.”
He was weary, but he could not rest, not until he knew what had happened.
“The battle…,” said Skylan. “My men…”
“Ilyrion struck terror into the hearts of the Sinarians and they fled. Their ships all burned. They will have to walk home. A very long walk,” Dela Eden said drily.
“What of the tally of the dead?” Skylan asked.
“Erdmun was killed, as well as the ogre shaman, Raven’s-foot, and many others, though not so many as you might think. We built a pyre on the beach below the ruins of the stormhold and sent their souls to the Gods of Raj.”
“The Gods of Raj…,” Skylan murmured. He remembered his talk with Torval. The world is in good hands … better hands …
“Go to sleep,” said Dela Eden. “Your fever is gone. Your sleep will be easeful, not troubled.”
“One question more. What became of Raegar?”
“He is dead.”
“How did he die?”
“That is a mystery. After the Sinarians fled, Sigurd and Grimuir searched the battlefield, recovering objects that might be of use.”
“You mean they looted the camp,” said Skylan, faintly smiling.
Dela Eden shrugged. “They found the charred remains of the royal pavilion with Raegar’s body inside. The tent had burned down around him, but the body was untouched by the flames. Sigurd checked to make certain he was dead. When he touched the body, it disintegrated. Knowing Raegar was cursed, Sigurd and Grimuir both fled. And now you must sleep.”
Skylan slept and this time, as Dela Eden had promised, he dreamed no dreams.
He woke feeling hungry. The sunlight was waning; the air was cooler with the coming of evening. He could see shadows of people walking past, outside the hut. Hearing someone moving inside, he turned his head.
“Aylaen…,” he said joyfully.
“It is Farinn,” said the young man. He closed the leather flap that covered the door, then came back to sit beside the bed.
Skylan saw the sorrowful expression on Farinn’s face and fear gripped him.
“Where is Aylaen?” he demanded.
Farinn lowered his gaze and murmured, “I am sorry, Skylan. So very sorry.”
“She is dead? I don’t believe you!” Skylan cried. “How could she have died? She summoned the dragon!”
Farinn moistened dry lips. “I don’t know how to tell you, because I fear you won’t believe me.”
“I must go find her,” said Skylan. He tried to stand up and collapsed.
Farinn caught him and eased him back down. Skylan lay there, cursing his weakness, while Farinn fetched cool water.
Skylan saw again the unbroken thread of his wyrd, lying beneath the World Tree, alone.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“Owl Mother took us to what looked like a cellar,” said Farinn. “Aylaen found the spiritbone in a helm on the statue of a dragon that stood, forgotten, in a corner. She was drawn to it, as though it spoke to her.
“Then Raegar entered the cellar with his god, Aelon, who told him Aylaen was there. Raegar threatened to kill her. Aylaen paid no heed. She walked over to the statue, to the spiritbone. She said she knew the secret of the magic.”
Farinn fell silent. Skylan gripped his hand tightly. “Go on.”
“Aelon came after her. I picked up Aylaen’s sword. I was going to fight, but Owl Mother wouldn’t let me,” Farinn said in shame.
“You would have fought a god?” Skylan said. “That was foolish. And brave.”
Farinn sighed. “That is what Owl Mother told me. Vindrash took up the blessed sword from me and refused to let Aelon pass. Aylaen picked up the helm and put it on her head. She fell down, dead. Or so it seemed.”
Skylan watched him with quiet intensity.
“Raegar found us then,” Farinn continued in a low voice. “When he saw Aylaen he thought she was dead, and so did Aelon. The god told him to take the helm and the spiritbone. But Raegar didn’t want to touch it; he was afraid. Aelon threatened him and he was about to pick it up when one of his men shouted that the fleet was on fire. Raegar knew you were responsible. He called upon Aelon to kill you, but he couldn’t find her. The god had fled in fear.
“A golden light spread through the cellar and Aylaen rose to her feet, laughing with joy. She was beautiful, Skylan, and radiant and proud.” Farinn’s voice grew hushed, reverent. “The jewels on the spiritbones blazed and became her blood, the bones of the dragon became her bones. Then I don’t know what happened. The light grew so bright it burned my eyes and the ground shook. Owl Mother cried out that we had to run. I didn’t want to leave Aylaen, but Owl Mother said Aylaen had made her choice and I must honor her.”
Skylan lay still and quiet. He pictured Aylaen, happy and proud and joyful, and thought perhaps she might have looked as she had looked on the day of their wedding.
“If I had known, I would have stopped her,” he said.
“She knew,” Farinn said. “That is why she didn’t tell you.”
“Did she know what would happen when she summoned the dragon?” Skylan asked.
“She did,” said Farinn steadily. “She willingly made the choice.”
“She made the choice to leave me,” said Skylan in bitter, anguished tones.
He was angry with her even as he knew his anger was not fair. She had made the same choice he had made when he took his place in the shield wall—to sacrifice himself for their people. Only she had died and he had survived.
Farinn looked stricken, not knowing what to say.
Skylan sighed. “The city vanished. What happened?”
“Owl Mother and I escaped through a secret door that was in her garden. By this time, Raegar’s troops were inside the city, running through the streets, setting fires and looting. They looked for the people, crying that they would slaughter them. But the city was empty. The Stormlords had disappeared.
“We were standing outside the wall when the Great Dragon Ilyrion rose up into the air and spread her wings that seemed to fill heaven. The soldiers saw her and screamed in fear and there was a flash of light and the soldiers were gone. And so was the city of Tsa Kerestra. Owl Mother and I stood alone on an empty plateau. Owl Mother said the Stormlords took the city and the soldiers inside to the Realm of Fire. ‘A cruel land for cruel men.’
“She sent me to find you, but everything on the beach was chaos. Men were running and shouting and cursing. Someone knocked me down and almost trampled me and then Wulfe found me. He told me where you were.”
“I remember,” said Skylan, adding tonelessly, “You said Aylaen was alive.”
“She is, Skylan,” said Farinn.
Skylan turned his head away.
“I know she is,” Farinn persisted. “When Ilyrion was flying over the battlefield, she saw you lying there and a tear fell from her eye. The tear splashed down on you and washed away the blood, and you shuddered and drew a breath. She brought you back to life.”
“She did me no favors,” said Skylan. “I made my choice as she made hers. She should have let me die.”
“Our people need you, Skylan,” said Farinn. “Now more than ever. Our lives will change. Aylaen knew that.”
And so did Torval.
The sun had set. The moon rose, round and warm, what the Vindrasi called a harvest moon, for its light shone so brightly that they could work in the fields. The interior of the hut was dark. Farinn offered to light a candle, but Skylan preferred the darkness.
He could hear people laughing and talking, and smell the scents of wood smoke and cooking pots. Parents were calling their children to come home. Farinn sat by his bed in uncomfortable silence.
“Leave me,” said Skylan.
Farinn hesitated a moment, then stood up and made his way through the dark hut to the door. He drew aside the flap and had started to go out when Skylan stopped him.
“Make a song for her,” he said.
Farinn nodded and left and Skylan lay alone and awake, staring into the darkness.
CHAPTER
51
Many days later, Sigurd, Grimuir, and Bjorn shared a meal of fresh-caught fish and rice and some sort of strange fruit, and discussed making the attempt to sail home.
All of them had been wounded. Sigurd was limping from an ugly gash on his leg that had opened his thigh. He had various other injuries, but he was proud to say that the wound on his leg was the worst.
Grimuir’s face had been slashed by a sword. Part of his nose was chopped off and the sight in one eye was destroyed. He shrugged off the hideous scars it would leave, saying he had never been that handsome to begin with.
Bjorn had suffered a blow to the head that had cracked his skull and knocked him out cold. He had fallen into the sea and would have drowned if Bear Walker had not seen him fall and pulled him out.
They had said farewell to Bear Walker and Keeper and the rest of the ogres, who had been eager to return to their homeland now that they could brag to their families that they had driven away Aelon. Sigurd had given the ogres three dragonships, which they would have to sail themselves, for there were no dragons.
“I hope their ogre gods are watching over them,” Sigurd remarked. “The lumbering oafs overturned one of the ships, and that was just when they were boarding it. They should be thankful one of the Cyclopes offered to go with them to navigate. Without Kamau to guide them, the lubbers would probably sail off the edge of the world.”
“That takes care of the ogres,” said Grimuir. “What do we do?”
“I think we remain here during the winter,” said Bjorn. “We are all recovering from our wounds. None of us is up to the task of sailing all the way back to Vindraholm. The seas will be rough with the coming of winter.”
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