He sighed. “Yet I have no fire in my belly.”
Keeper glanced ruefully at Skylan. “Once I was like you. For a year after my capture, the fire burned hot. Then one morning I woke to find that the fire had gone out. I didn’t care anymore. Strange, because my name is Keeper of the Fire, a name I was given in my vision quest when I was a youth. I thought it had meaning. I guess it didn’t.”
They arrived at what the ogre termed “the playing field.” Several circles within circles were painted white on the clipped grass. In the center was a fire pit with no fire. A great many boulders, also painted white with black runes, stood scattered about the circles, seemingly at random. Two platforms constructed of wood on the rim of the outer circle faced each other on opposite sides.
“This is where the game is played and where we will train,” said Keeper.
Skylan cast a bored glance at the field. He had only one interest. “When do we fight?”
Keeper chuckled. “You must first learn the rules. You are the only Vindrasi I have ever trained to play the Para Dix. I have fought your people, but I do not know much about you. In my land, we play a game on a wooden board marked off in squares, using stones that hop from square to square. Do your people have something similar?”
“Nothing as stupid-sounding as that,” said Skylan. The thought of his homeland made his heart ache. The fire in his belly burned. He intended to keep it that way.
He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Acronis coming onto the field to watch.
Skylan folded his arms across his chest and said loudly, “We play a game called ‘Screw the Ogre.’ ”
Keeper quirked an eyebrow. Skylan decided that this ogre must be the stupidest ogre in the world since he obviously did not know when he had been insulted.
Keeper made a sweeping gesture. “Think of that as the game board. Think of yourself and your men as the game pieces.”
He poked Skylan in the chest with a thick finger, then called to the Legate, “He is ready, lord.”
“Tell him move to boulder number ten,” said Acronis. “He can’t read, so you’re going to have to teach him how to recognize which that is.”
“The boulder with the X is number ten,” said Keeper. “The Legate has moved you to that area on the board. Go stand beside it and wait for further instructions.”
“Tell the Legate he can go piss on the boulder with the X on it,” said Skylan. “And if you touch me again with your filthy finger, I’ll break it off.”
“The Vindrasi slave says he finds the rules difficult to understand, lord,” Keeper yelled.
“Then make them simple for him,” said Acronis, smiling.
Keeper kicked Skylan in the gut. While he was groaning, the ogre lifted Skylan with one arm, slung him over his broad shoulder, and carried him to the boulder. With a heave, Keeper threw Skylan to the ground.
“And that is how you play the game,” said the ogre.
CHAPTER
10
* * *
BOOK TWO
While Skylan was learning the intricacies of Para Dix, the other Torgun warriors and Aylaen were picking up rocks in a field.
The field was covered with stones of various shapes and sizes, some buried deep in the ground. The soldiers ordered the Torgun to dig out the stones that were about the size of a man’s fist and pile them in heaps to one side of the field. The work was laborious and pointless, as far as Aylaen could see. She had worked in the farm fields since she was old enough to know a weed from a bean sprout, and she recognized that the ground was too rocky to be good for planting. Only when the Torgun were ordered to load the stones into wagons did she realize that the stones were the crop they were harvesting. According to one of the guards, the stones would be hauled away, crushed and used in the making of concrete.
Aylaen was accustomed to hard labor in the fields. She enjoyed farming, watching crops grow, tending to the seedlings, gathering in the harvest. This was different. She came to hate this work. The constant stooping and bending and carrying the rocks to the cart made her back ache. Her fingers were torn and bleeding from scrabbling to pull the rocks out of the ground.
The sun was hot, the air damp from the rain. The men stripped off their tunics. The soldiers taunted Aylaen, told her to do the same.
The soldiers who had treated her with respect while under the stern eye of Zahakis now felt free to insult her. They leered at her and made crude remarks. She pretended not to hear. Her stepfather heard, however, and he and the other Torgun were growing increasingly angry.
At some particularly unsavory remark, Sigurd threw the rock he had been carrying at the soldiers. The rock missed. The soldiers put their hands on their sword hilts, though they were in no danger. The tattoo on his arm was already starting to burn. The soldiers laughed and jeered. Aylaen wanted to sink into the ground with the rocks.
She was afraid and she was angry, and her anger began swallowing up her fear. She was angry at the soldiers for the ugly things they were saying. She was angry at her stepfather for feeling he needed to protect her.
The soldiers ordered all the Torgun to sit down with their backs against the cart. Aylaen was glad to rest, though she knew she would regret the inactivity when she tried to stand up. She could already feel her muscles stiffening.
Sweat rolled off her, dripping from her wet red curls. The man’s shirt she wore clung to her body. She was ravenous and desperately thirsty, and when the soldier handed her a mug filled with water, she took the cup and brought it to her lips, tilting her head to drink.
The soldier grabbed hold of her breasts.
Shamed and outraged, Aylaen slammed the pottery mug into the man’s face. The mug broke, the shards cut into his flesh. He swore and, touching his face, drew back fingers covered in blood.
“Whore! You should be grateful for my attention!” He struck her with the back of his hand.
She was furious, suddenly, at men—all men—for making her feel weak and vulnerable and afraid.
The Madness of Torval, the holy fire sent by the god that burns away fear and pain, swept over her. Aylaen grabbed a stone from the cart and flung it at the soldier who had hit her.
She grabbed another stone and threw it at Sigurd, who yelped in pain and stared at her in astonishment. Blinded by the madness, Aylaen threw stone after stone, hitting friend and foe alike. There was no need to aim, for the men were bunched together, and she could not fail to hit someone. Aylaen shrieked curses at them and hurled stones.
A man grabbed her from behind. Strong arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her side. She could not see who had hold of her. She had no idea if he was friend or foe. All she knew was that he was stopping her from hurting those who had hurt her, and she kicked him in the shins and tried to bite him and fought to free herself. The man refused to let go.
“Stop, Aylaen! They’ll kill you if don’t!”
“Good!” she said viciously, and stamped on his foot.
He kept hold of her.
“We will have our revenge one day, Aylaen,” he said into her ear. “But not today. Today we must stay alive.”
The madness receded. The bloody mist that had obscured her vision receded. Men held their heads, groaning, their faces bruised and bloodied. Aylaen was fiercely glad to see the soldier who had accosted her holding his hand over his cracked head.
“I’m all right,” Aylaen mumbled. “You can let go now.”
Skylan let go of her. Aylaen was startled. She had no idea Skylan was the one who had been holding her. Everyone was staring at her. She felt tears sting her eyes. She realized in dismay she was going to cry in front of all these men and that would make her look even weaker.
Skylan stepped in front of her and began to talk, telling the Torgun about the Para Dix, about how they were going to be fighting in this game. The men turned their attention to him, giving Aylaen a chance to avert her head and hastily wipe her eyes.
Zahakis had no need to ask what had happened to cause the fight
. He could guess. He ordered the soldier with the broken nose to get himself patched up. Zahakis ordered the Torgun to go back to work, then walked over to Aylaen.
“I have orders to take you to the Temple,” he said.
“You sent Wulfe to the Temple and he never made it,” said Skylan dourly.
“Don’t start trouble,” Zahakis said grimly. “You won’t win.”
“What about the Para Dix?” asked Skylan. “Keeper says she is to be one of the team.”
“She is only going to the Temple for a visit,” said Zahakis. “She will be back for training.”
“It’s all right, Skylan,” Aylaen said. “I want to see to Treia.”
“See what you can find out about Wulfe,” Skylan said to her in a low voice.
Aylaen nodded. Her eyes were swimming. She couldn’t see him very well.
“You routed two armies,” he said to her. “Single-handed. Well done.”
Aylaen wiped her running nose with the back of her hand and walked off with Zahakis, holding her head high.
______
Zahakis rode to the Temple on horse back, with Aylaen riding behind him. She paid little attention to the crowds or the people in the streets who stared at the two of them. She was so weary it was all she could do to keep from falling off the horse. Zahakis brought her to the Temple and sent a messenger to summon Raegar.
He came swiftly, accompanied by Treia.
“I will send an escort for her tomorrow to commence her training,” said Zahakis.
Raegar frowned, displeased. “Perhaps she will not want to leave. Aelon might call upon her to serve him as a priestess.”
Zahakis glanced at Aylaen. Her face was flushed and filthy, her clothes torn and sweat-stained, her hair straggling into her face, her fingers and arms scratched and bloody. He thought about the trouble she had caused and would continue to cause.
“I wish Aelon luck with that,” said Zahakis.
Treia and Raegar took Aylaen into the Temple. Raegar showed her the wonders, the huge statue of Aelon, the gifts people were leaving. Aylaen yawned and stumbled and almost fell asleep standing up. Treia, seeing her fatigue, suggested that she take her back to her room.
Aylaen accompanied them, too tired to pay any attention to where they were going. She did note that Treia had donned what was apparently the garb of a priestess of Aelon, for all the other women walking the Temple grounds were dressed in the same long, white flowing gown, belted at the waist.
They reached the nunnery. Raegar gave Aylaen a smile and, taking her hand in his, squeezed it affectionately, and then left. Treia had noticed, Aylaen saw.
“You look as though you have been in a brawl,” said Treia, regarding her with disfavor. “And you need a bath.”
Treia took Aylaen to the small cell and made her lie down on her bed. Aylaen argued a little, but not much. She let her sister strip off her clothes and bathe her in cool water. Aylaen fell asleep during these ministrations and knew nothing more until she woke to find that it was night.
Light shone through the tiny window and she could see her sister quite clearly. Treia was seated in a chair beside the bed.
“You took a little nap. How are you feeling?” Treia asked solicitously.
“Sore,” said Aylaen, wincing at the pain in her lower back and her arms. “And hungry.”
Treia provided food—bread and honey, dried apples and olives.
“Sister,” Treia began.
“Don’t call me that,” said Aylaen, annoyed. She dipped the bread in the honey.
“Call you what?” Treia asked, startled.
“Sister. You only call me sister when you want something from me,” said Aylaen.
Treia flushed an ugly color and rose to her feet. She stalked over to the window, her back to her.
Aylaen was suddenly ashamed.
“Treia, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t know what I’m saying or doing anymore. I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. And yet . . . I can’t seem to wake up either!”
Treia turned to her. She regarded her sister silently for a moment, then came to sit by her side. Treia’s eyes were wide and coated with a moist sheen that glimmered in the light. “I want to help, Aylaen. And so does Aelon. That’s why I needed to talk to you. The god wants to give you your heart’s desire.”
Aylaen regarded her sister in perplexity. “Aelon? He is the god of our enemies, Treia. Why are you praying to him?”
“Why not pray to him? Our gods took away my childhood. Our gods made me half-blind and made me a spinster for people to mock. Our gods bring nothing to our people but hardship and pain. Why should I worship them?”
She drew nearer, resting her cold hand on Aylaen’s.
“Why should you worship them, Aylaen? They let Garn die. . . .”
The thread is twisted and spun upon the wheel. Then I snip it and he dies. The little song ran through Aylaen’s head.
“Aelon wants to ease your pain, Aylaen. He wants to give you a gift.”
“Have you seen the tattoos on our menfolk? Your god inflicts pain. He does not ease it.”
Treia shook her head. “Our god does not want to harm them. He grieves when he is forced to punish them, just as our mother grieved when she had to punish us.”
“Sigurd was never sad when he punished us,” said Aylaen. “He enjoyed hitting us. Perhaps your god is the same.”
“Stop it, Aylaen,” said Treia tersely. “I’m trying to help you. Aelon is not like Sigurd. The god wants you to know that he loves you. That is why he wants to give you a gift.”
“And what is this ‘gift’?” Aylaen asked warily.
“Aelon can bring Garn back to life.”
Aylaen stared. “I don’t believe you. This is a cruel jest.”
“No, my sister,” said Treia. “I am in earnest.”
Aylaen stood up, dragging the bed linens with her to cover her nakedness.
“I won’t listen to this. I want to leave. Where are my clothes?”
“I threw them out. They were bloodstained and they stank. Don’t you want to be with Garn again?”
“This is a lie,” said Aylaen, trembling. “I don’t believe you.”
“Raegar assures me—”
“Raegar!” Aylaen gave a bitter smile. “So he is the one behind this. I might have guessed.”
“Please listen to me, Aylaen!” Treia tried to take hold of her sister’s hand, but Aylaen drew back from her. “I know you don’t like Raegar, but he is fond of you”—her lips twisted when she said this—” and he is sad to see you suffer.”
“You are telling me that this god can bring Garn back to life,” Aylaen said. “How is that possible?”
“Aelon is a powerful god, Aylaen,” said Treia. “Far more powerful than the gods of the Vindrasi, which is why they are going down in defeat.”
“Garn would be with me, living, breathing. He could touch me, talk to me . . .?”
“Through the blessing and wonder of Aelon, Garn will be with you.”
Aylaen sat back down on the bed. She thought of loving Garn again, of holding him in her arms, of telling him how much she loved him. Tears filled her eyes.
“I don’t believe it,” she said again.
“Raegar will prove it to you, Aylaen,” said Treia. “Tonight you will sleep here with me. You will have all day tomorrow to think about this. If you are willing, Raegar will take you to the Spirit Priestesses tomorrow night. Now sleep. You must look your best. For Garn.”
Aylaen lay down on the bed, but she could not sleep. She was bewildered, confused, her mind in turmoil. She wanted so much to believe that she and Garn would be together again. But restoring the dead to life was impossible. Not only impossible, but wrong. Garn would be in Torval’s Hall with the other heroes. He would be angry with her for dragging him away.
But I can bear his anger, Aylaen thought. I can bear anything so long as he is with me again!
“Treia, what does Aelon want of me?” Aylaen asked. “The
god must want something.”
“Aelon wants you to love him, Sister. As he loves you.”
“And nothing else?”
“Well . . .” said Treia with a smile hidden by the shadows, “perhaps Aelon does want a little something. . . .”
CHAPTER
11
* * *
BOOK TWO
The sky was clear the next day, the sun shone brightly, strong and powerful. The day would be hot. Raegar basked in the sun’s warmth as he walked to the Shrine to meet Treia early, as the crowds were gathering for morning prayers. When he had first come to Oran as a slave, he had detested the summer’s heat. He had thought he would die of it, the breathless nights lying in bed, bathed in his own sweat; the relentless sunshine that beat on him like a hammer during the day, making him light-headed and giddy.
He had grown used to the heat, and now came to relish it. He recalled the cruel, killing winters of his homeland, of toes that turned black from frostbite and had to be cut off, of enduring bleak months of snow and wind, half-starved, half-frozen. He looked back on his life with distaste, wondering how he could have ever longed to return to it.
Aelon was his life now. Sinaria and its people were his life. He wanted, more than anything, for them to accept him, respect him. He had the spiritbone of the dragon. Treia would teach him the ritual or the Dragon Fala would teach him.
He had not yet attempted to summon the dragon, but he was certain she would answer. Her spiritbone had all but leaped into his hand during the raid on the temple. Though he had not yet met her or spoken to her, he seemed to know her. Her image came into his mind whenever he touched the spiritbone. Fala was a young dragon, eager and ambitious. Young dragons have a difficult time surviving and bringing children into the world, for the older dragons, like Kahg, have first pick of the jewels that in some instances are not jewels at all, but unborn dragons.
The Dragon Fala was not a follower of Aelon. She wanted treasure and in return, she agreed to help Raegar sail the seas in search of jewels. A war galley was being secretly rebuilt and refitted to accommodate the dragon.
Secret of the Dragon Page 21