Treia lifted the lid and gave a glad cry. “Here are my clothes, clean and dry.”
Reaching in, she drew out a dress for herself and another she handed to Aylaen. “You can stop pretending to serve the Goddess. You no longer need to dress like a man.”
Aylaen shook her head.
“You might as well,” Treia urged, thrusting the dress into Aylaen’s arms. “We both know why you made that vow to be a man-woman. You didn’t really intend to become a Bone Priestess. You wanted only to be with Garn.”
Aylaen smoothed the fabric of the apron-dress. Though her clothes were wet and grimy, she wanted to wear what she had on: a man’s wool tunic and leather trousers and boots. She wanted to stay as she was, where she was in time. She did not want time to move, unless time moved backward. Change of any sort seemed a betrayal of her love for Garn.
Aylaen folded the dress. She was about to place it back inside the chest when something fell out of the folds and landed on the deck with a thud.
“What is that?” Treia asked, blinking, unable to see in the dim light.
The knife was small, the kind used by fishermen to cut fouled lines and gut fish. Aylaen picked it up, touched it gingerly. The blade was sharp. She slipped the knife into the top of her boot.
“Only a brooch that fell off the dress,” she said. “There’s nothing else in here.”
“Are you certain?” Treia said suspiciously. She came up behind Aylaen and tried to see over her shoulder.
Aylaen was annoyed and about to tell her sister she could look for herself, when she gave a little gasp. The spiritbone lay at the bottom of the chest.
“Sister, I found it!”
Aylaen lifted the spiritbone and sat back on her heels, gazing at it in wonder. “How is this possible? The bone fell into the ocean. How did it come to be here?”
“You ‘found’ it!” Treia said with a tight-lipped smile. She snatched the spiritbone out of Aylaen’s hand. “I thought you might ‘find’ it if we looked long enough.”
Treia held the bone close to her weak eyes to study it, as though she feared it might be fake. “I will take it for safekeeping.”
“You can have it,” said Aylaen. “The gods know I don’t want it.”
She thought back to the battle with the giants. If she had stayed on the beach to fight with Garn and Skylan, not gone running out into the sea to retrieve the spiritbone, Garn might still be alive. Aylaen hated the very sight of it.
“I am glad you understand, Sister,” said Treia.
Aylaen didn’t, not in the least, but she was thankful that she could stop searching. She could feel the cool blade of the knife in her boot.
“Are you hungry?” Treia asked. “I will ask for food.”
She climbed the ladder that led up out of the hold and began to beat on the hatch, shouting that Raegar had promised them food and water. Footsteps sounded on the deck above.
Aylaen drew the knife from her boot.
“If Garn will not come back to me,” said Aylaen softly, running her finger over the blade’s sharp edge, “I will go to him.”
CHAPTER
6
* * *
BOOK ONE
The next morning, Zahakis ordered his soldiers to haul the Venjekar across the shallow water of the bay to within hailing distance of the Light of the Sea. The Legate was on the deck, flanked by four archers and ten soldiers, as well as the ship’s crew, who stood ready to raise the sails and set out to sea should flight become necessary. Acronis ordered the rowers stationed at their oars, which were belowdecks, not only to be ready to row the galley out of danger, but for their own protection. Most of the men, not wanting to miss the spectacle of a dragon, crowded close to the oarports in order to get a good view.
Raegar stood on the deck of the Venjekar before the dragonhead prow. He wore a suit of ceremonial armor and a surplice embroidered with serpents eating their own tails, the vestments of the warrior-priesthood of the New Dawn.
The sun shone brilliantly this morning. Raegar, looking at the fiery orb, saw Aelon’s glory, for Aelon ruled the sun, as he ruled all above and below. Skylan, looking at the sun, saw the goddess Aylis glaring at him and the other Torgun warriors in fierce anger, intent on making them sweat.
The prisoners had been herded together at the back of the ship, as far from the prow as possible, with ten soldiers and Zahakis to keep close watch over them. Skylan sat on a sea chest, his feet and hands chained, and wondered what was going on. Erdmun claimed he had overheard one of the soldiers say that Raegar was going to summon the Dragon Kahg and order him to sail the ship. Skylan scoffed at this, as did the other warriors.
“Not even Raegar’s that stupid,” said Sigurd. “The Dragon Kahg would have his balls for breakfast.”
The others laughed and added their own crude remarks.
“Unless our gods are dead,” said a quiet voice. “Maybe his god rules everything now, even the dragons.”
The young man who had spoken was named Farinn. He had not been long among the Torgun, having only recently moved to Luda to live with relatives following the death of his parents, who had been killed when their long house caught fire. He was fifteen and this was his first voyage, the battle with the giants his first battle. He had accorded himself well; at least Skylan assumed he had. He couldn’t remember that Farinn had even been there, though he must have been. The battle with the giants had been chaotic and confusing and Skylan could recall it only in horrific flashes. Farinn was so quiet people tended to forget he was around. Even now, when he spoke, men looked surprised. And troubled.
Skylan did not know Farinn well. Looking at the other Torgun, Skylan realized he did not know any of these men well, though he had lived with most of them from childhood up.
He could not have said, off hand, what Sigurd liked to eat for supper. Skylan might have been able to put names to Grimuir’s children, at least the boys, for he sometimes played war games with them, but he would have been hard-pressed to say whether Grimuir had three sons or four.
Sklyan knew his comrades only as warriors. He knew where to place each man in the shield wall, knew how well each handled sword and spear and axe. He had relied on Garn for the rest. Garn who seemed to know everything about everyone, not because he loved gossip, like Bjorn, but because he had genuinely cared about his friends.
“How can I care about these men when I might have to send them to their deaths?” Skylan had once asked Garn.
“That’s just an excuse,” Garn had told him with a laugh to take the sting from his words. “The welfare of one person absorbs you completely. And that person is Skylan Ivorson.”
Skylan remembered Garn’s laughter and his heart ached. He stared out at the waves lapping against the ship’s hull and listened to the talk that, not surprisingly, excluded him. No one asked his opinion or what he thought. They kept their backs to him.
“Our gods are not dead,” Bjorn said firmly.
“Then where are they? Not around here, that’s for certain,” Erdmun returned. “I heard Treia was going to summon the dragon. She is a Bone Priestess. If anyone would know whether or not our gods are dead, it would be her.”
The others looked uneasy at this. Skylan stirred and considered speaking out, denying Erdmun’s claim that the gods were dead, but he knew no one would listen to him. Skylan focused his attention on Raegar. It was hard to stomach the sight of the traitor pacing proudly back and forth beneath the dragonhead prow, casting a critical eye over the Venjekar as though he was her master.
The others continued talking. The soldiers generally broke up conversations among the prisoners, for fear they might be plotting to escape. Skylan was surprised they were allowing it until he noted Zahakis, their commander, lounging nearby, listening intently. He was finding this discussion about dead gods and dragons very interesting, apparently. Skylan was about to order his men to keep silent, until he remembered that they would refuse to obey.
“The spiritbone is lost,” said Bjorn. �
�It fell into the sea when the Dragon Kahg was wounded and left to return to his own realm. I should know. I helped search for it.”
“The spiritbone always comes back to the Bone Priestess. She must have found it. Raegar wouldn’t risk making a fool of himself otherwise,” Grimuir argued.
“He isn’t just risking making a fool of himself,” said Sigurd. “He knows that the Dragon Kahg could send that monster of a ship to the bottom of the sea with a twitch of his tail. Raegar knows something. Or thinks he knows something.”
“He knows our gods are dead,” said Erdmun stubbornly.
The sea chest beneath Skylan began to shake, and he kicked it to make it stop. Wulfe had woken before dawn and had started to leave the ship, as usual, to keep out of the way of the iron-wielding, iron-wearing soldiers. Skylan had stopped him, telling him that if the ship sailed, he would be marooned on the island by himself.
Wulfe had said that if Raegar caught him, he’d be dead here by himself and Skylan had told the boy to hide in the sea chest. Wulfe was slightly built and could bend his lithe and skinny body as if he were made of willow branches, and he had no trouble fitting into the chest. But he’d been there a long time and he was probably finding his hiding place cramped, hot, and uncomfortable.
“Be quiet,” Skylan told the boy in a low voice. “Something’s about to happen.”
Raegar ordered one of the soldiers to give the signal. The man blew a blast on the trumpet. Once he had everyone’s attention, Raegar began to speak in a booming voice designed to carry over the water to the galley, loudly expouding upon the glories of Aelon and how they would witness those glories by seeing that even a dragon known to serve the Vindrasi gods would bow to Aelon.
He spoke with conviction. Skylan, glancing around, saw that his men were grim-faced and downcast, as men look when they have no choice but to concede a bitter truth.
What did Raegar hope to accomplish? Skylan wondered. Raegar must be confident that this god of his could exert control over the dragon, otherwise he would not risk summoning Kahg, who could reduce the Light of the Sea to the Blazing Heap of Ashes. Skylan felt a nagging doubt. Farinn was right. The gods did appear to have abandoned their people. He did not believe the gods were dead, but it could be that Torval and Vindrash were not strong enough to intervene. What if this god, Aelon, was able to compel the Dragon Kahg to obey?
“Then that will be a sign,” Skylan said softly.
Raegar continued with his exhortation. The soldiers were well-disciplined and stood unmoving beneath the merciless sun. They all wore their best armor, the helms with the cheek flaps, the leather skirts, and they must be broiling. Their faces and bare arms glistened with sweat. Skylan more than once cast a longing glance at the cool seawater, rolling beneath the keel of the Venjekar.
Skylan wondered if the soldiers were wishing they could jump into the water or wishing they could throw in Raegar. There was no telling how long the warrior-priest would have gone on praising Aelon. He was interrupted, cut off mid-sentence by the Legate.
“I trust Aelon will forgive me for rushing him,” Acronis called out from the deck of the war galley, “but we are all slowly roasting to death. Get on with it.”
Raegar frowned, deeply offended. “One of you men fetch the Bone Priestess,” he said with what dignity he could muster.
Skylan looked intently at Raegar, searching for any sign that he was at all doubtful or nervous. To the contrary, Raegar appeared smugly confident.
Skylan sighed, and hearing a growling noise coming from the sea chest, he kicked it again.
Down in the hold, Treia was dressed in her ceremonial robes, which she wore over the apron dress, wearing that over the linen smock. She was sweating profusely in the close, confined area of the hold. Aylaen remained in bed.
She could hear Raegar’s loud voice coming from above deck, going on and on about his god. The droning put her to sleep. She was awakened by the sound of someone coming down the ladder.
“Priestess,” said the soldier curtly, pointing at Treia and gesturing to the deck above. “You are summoned. Make haste.”
Treia looked at Aylaen, who made no move to rise.
“Aren’t you coming with me?” Treia asked, startled.
“Why?” asked Aylaen. “You have the spiritbone.”
Treia cast a glance at the soldier. “Tell Warrior-Priest Raegar I will attend him shortly.”
She waited until the soldier had gone back up the stairs, then she hurried over to Aylaen and knelt beside her. “We should both pray to Vindrash to summon the dragon. Just to be safe.”
Aylaen thought of the dream, of Vindrash casting her out into the cold. She shook her head.
“The goddess isn’t interested in hearing from me.”
“Treia!” Raegar shouted angrily from the deck. “I sent for you! What is this delay?”
“You have to come, Aylaen!” said Treia insistently. “Please!”
Aylaen sat up, her arms on her knees.
“I don’t see why. . . .”
“Because sometimes the Dragon Kahg doesn’t come when I summon him,” Treia said, her face strained and tense and glistening with sweat.
“The dragon will come, Treia. You are the Bone Priestess.”
Treia’s lips tightened. She was holding the spiritbone in her hand, and suddenly she thrust it in Aylaen’s face.
“The Dragon Kahg gave the spiritbone to you. You are the one who found it. That means he wants you to have it.”
“But I don’t want it,” Aylaen said, shocked. She stared at her sister in dismay. “I don’t want anything to do with this!”
“Then our people are doomed,” said Treia coldly. “And you have doomed them.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Aylaen took the spiritbone from Treia’s hand.
On the war galley, Acronis walked the deck, trying to find the most advantageous position from which to see what was happening on board the Venjekar. He could hear Raegar summoning the women. There appeared to be some sort of problem, for there was a momentary delay, but then they appeared, one wearing what looked to be ceremonial robes and the other dressed like a man. According to Raegar, this female had taken some sort of vow to her barbaric gods to become a “man-woman.”
Acronis found this practice curious, and he had made a note of it. He had been disappointed to find that Raegar could not provide him with more details.
“I have not lived among them for years,” said Raegar dismissively. “Thank Aelon I’ve managed to forget all their savage ways.”
Poor Raegar. An ambitious man, he could capture all the dragons in the world and he would never gain what he sought—acceptance in Sinarian society. He would always be an outsider. Acronis had once tried, kindly, to explain to him the facts of the matter. Raegar had flown into a rage, yelling and cursing—merely confirming what everyone knew. He was, beneath his fine clothes, an uncivilized barbarian.
The two women stood close together. They were sisters, though Acronis found that difficult to credit, for they did not look much alike. The one who dressed as a man had green eyes and a crop of red curls. The other had long blondish hair and dark eyes. The red-haired woman was a beauty or would have been if she had combed her rampant curls and washed her face. Her older sister might have been attractive, but for the fact that she squinted and walked with the slight stoop one often saw with those who had poor eyesight.
The ritual to summon the dragon was apparently about to start, for the older sister had hold of an object that must be the vaunted spiritbone. She lifted the bone in front of her and began speaking to the wooden head of the dragon.
Acronis was too far away to see the bone or hear what the priestess was saying and he regretted that he was not present on the Venjekar to observe and take notes. He had considerd it, but had at last agreed reluctantly with Zahakis that the Legate’s place was on his own galley, ready to order his men to take action should the dragon attack.
Raegar had promised he could control the beast—or rathe
r, Aelon could control it. Acronis was dubious and, frankly, at this stage, after sweltering in the sun listening to Raeger drone on and on, Acronis was rooting for the dragon.
The Vindrasi prisoners were silent, watching their Bone Priestess. The blond, young hothead named Skylan sat by himself.
“He is undoubtedly praying to his savage gods that his dragon will kill us all,” Acronis remarked to his scribe, who was by his side. “I don’t suppose I can blame him.”
The priestess quit speaking. Holding the spiritbone, she placed her hands into a bucket of water, scooped up seawater, and held it and the spiritbone in her cupped palms.
The Torgun warriors rose eagerly to their feet, ignoring the soldiers who angrily ordered them to sit down. Raegar glared at all of them and demanded silence.
The water in the priestess’s hands dripped onto the deck. Nothing happened.
Acronis glanced at his archers, who must be growing weary of keeping their arrows nocked. He did not give them the order to stand down. Not yet. Even at this distance, he could see Raegar’s face darken in anger and concern.
Raegar said something to the priestess, who said something to her sister, the man-woman, and thrust the spiritbone at her. The Torgun warriors began to yell, urging her on. The man-woman shook her head. Her sister spoke to her at length, and, finally, the man-woman gave way. She took the spiritbone from her sister, dipped her hands into the water, and then, before Raegar could stop her, she flung the spiritbone into the sea.
Acronis was startled. Was this part of the ritual? He didn’t think it was, for Raegar was choking with fury and yelling for someone who could swim to jump into the shallow water after it.
Ripples from where the spiritbone landed were still spreading. Then, the seawater began to swirl.
Acronis leaned over the rail to get a closer view. The swirling motion grew stronger, causing the war galley to rock at anchor and sending waves splashing into the hull of the Venjekar. The sea began to rise, kicking up foam. Sea spray rose into the air, whirling like a water spout turned upside down.
Secret of the Dragon Page 6