Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  “—whether you pissants like it or not,” Keeper continued. “I am your chief because I have been a participant in this game for many years.

  “Many years,” Keeper repeated, his voice hardening. He glanced at Skylan, perhaps recalling their conversation of yesterday.

  The ogre was silent, his face shadowed. Then he shook himself, like a wet dog, and went on to describe the rules of the game.

  He is thinking of what I said, Skylan realized, smiling inwardly. He can no longer eat his dinner with the same enjoyment. Every time he chews a mouthful, he remembers that he is eating his master’s table scraps.

  An elbow jabbed Skylan in the ribs.

  “Are you listening to this bullshit?” Bjorn asked.

  “I heard it yesterday,” said Skylan.

  All about each player being able to move so many squares at a time, in one direction at a time. Each player could move only when told to move, each could fight only when told to fight.

  “Bullshit, as you say, my friend,” said Skylan loudly.

  Keeper stopped talking.

  “All we have to do is capture the fire, right?” Skylan said. He gestured. “Give us shields and swords, and while our foes are dancing from one square to another, we will capture the goddam fire.”

  The Torgun laughed their agreement.

  Zahakis left off lounging and stepped forward.

  “That was how the Para Dix was played long ago,” he said. “Men killing each other, blood covering the playing field. The spectators quickly grew bored with what was little more than an organized brawl. Now we have the rules as Keeper explained them.”

  “I think this young man finds it hard to play by the rules,” Keeper said, eyeing Skylan.

  “You obey their rules,” Skylan said. “And you have grown fat and happy in the land of your enemies.”

  Keeper’s plump cheeks quivered in anger, his small eyes narrowed. He clenched his fist and took a step. Skylan braced himself for the blow. Slowly and with an effort, the ogre regained control.

  “You will find the game demeaning,” Keeper said, his gaze on Skylan though he spoke to all of them. “You will find it hard to bear. You will hear the audience jeer and call you names. They will laugh when you are writhing on the ground in pain and applaud when a foe jabs you in the gut with a spear. They will cheer as you lay dying. And for what? For a stupid game, you say.

  “You say wrong. We Para Dix players, we do not fight for the stinking crowd. We do not fight for the Empress or for our master or even for their god.”

  Keeper drew himself up proudly and now he looked at each of them, gathering them up, bringing them together. “We fight for honor. Not for the honor of winning, because sometimes we will not win. We fight for our honor and that of our people. And to gain honor, we must fight by the rules, even if we don’t like them.” He looked back at Skylan and there was a glint in the small eyes. “We may be slaves. They may have taken away our freedom. They may take our lives. But our honor is in our hearts and that they cannot take away.”

  The words seemed burned into Skylan’s brain, like the tattoo on his arm. It was only an ogre who spoke, but it seemed to Skylan that the voice came from the gods.

  The Torgun spent the rest of the afternoon hopping one square up and back three or leaping over one square and landing on another or doing mock battles with swords made of wood. When any of them made a move they shouldn’t have, as when Aki went forward one square instead of back two, Keeper made sure Aki learned his mistake by knocking him on his arse. And if any tried to retaliate, as when Aki took a swing at the ogre, Keeper knocked him down again and again until he got it right.

  Only one of the Torgun was not punished for making a mistake and that was Aylaen. If she moved to the wrong square or if she stood staring at nothing and forgetting to move at all, he would thunder “Female” until she looked at him.

  Skylan thought at first Keeper was being easy on Aylaen because she was a woman, but he soon realized he was wrong.

  “You, Female, you fight for the honor of your goddess,” said Keeper angrily. “Yet you make your goddess look the fool.”

  “This is a stupid game,” said Aylaen sullenly.

  “It may be a stupid game, but if you make a mistake, you are not the only one who will suffer. You will let down everyone on your team, your comrades, your fellow warriors.”

  Aylaen shrugged, uncaring. “When you stand in the shield wall, Female, do you use your shield to protect only yourself?” Keeper asked. “You overlap shields, so that your shield protects your body and that of the warrior next to you. Think only of yourself and another will suffer.”

  Aylaen paled. She looked so ill and unhappy that Bjorn said angrily, “Leave her alone. She is doing the best she can. We all are.”

  “The gods help you,” Keeper growled.

  Aylaen was careful to pay attention after that.

  There were ten players on a team and only eight Torgun; the Legate brought in two veteran players from another one of his teams to train with them. Keeper explained that often “unblooded” players were put in with veterans so that they would learn what to do. These men were slaves; they all had the tattoos, but they were Southlanders, and, as Skylan was soon to learn, they were proud of the fact that they were players in the Para Dix.

  The veterans laughed loudly at the stupidity of the barbarians, and there would have been trouble, despite the presence of the soldiers, if the Legate himself had not come strolling onto the field to see how the practice was progressing. The Southlander slaves were different men in his presence. Meek and servile, they groveled and fawned over him.

  “Makes you want to vomit, doesn’t it?” Bjorn said grimly.

  Keeper had given them time to rest, drink some water, wipe away the sweat and the blood.

  Skylan was surprised to find that Bjorn was actually holding a conversation with him, no longer ostracizing him. He was more surprised when Bjorn added, awkwardly, “I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you, Skylan. I was punishing you for Garn’s death. It wasn’t right.”

  “I’m the one who is sorry, my friend,” said Skylan. “I let Garn down. I let you down. I let all my people down.”

  Bjorn stared, amazed, then he said with a half smile, “That’s the first time I have ever heard you say you were sorry for anything. When the real Skylan comes back, tell him I was asking for him.”

  “Skylan Ivorson has grown up, my friend,” Skylan said quietly. “Torval willing, the other will never return.”

  Keeper blew a whistle and the practice started all over again.

  It was late afternoon before Keeper called a halt. The Torgun sank to the ground, limp with exhaustion from standing and jumping and running and fighting in the hot sun.

  “You must get used to it,” Keeper told them. “In the arena, you will be fighting on the field, with a roaring fire burning in the center.”

  They were too tired to give a damn. Zahakis had orders to take Aylaen back to be with her sister. She had gained some color in her face during the practice, but the moment she saw Zahakis walking toward her, she went livid.

  “Refuse to go back,” said Skylan.

  Aylaen cast him a desperate, fearful glance. Then she shook her head and went off with Zahakis.

  Skylan had never been so exhausted, not even after fighting in the shield wall. Every muscle ached and burned. His head throbbed from the heat. He was bruised and bleeding. Every step required an effort and they had a long walk back to the slave compound.

  He made no complaint, however, nor did any of the Torgun. Grimuir had stepped in a gopher hole and twisted his ankle. Sigurd had to stop on the way to throw up. Young Farinn’s breath came in pain-filled gasps and he held his hand pressed against his ribs. Aki stifled a groan as he walked through the tall grass. Bjorn had to practically carry Erdmun. But they felt better than they had picking up rocks. Our honor is in our hearts. . . .

  Skylan was looking forward to collapsing, when Keeper called out to
him.

  The ogre, bathed in sweat, gave off a rank odor. He walked slowly, his massive shoulders sagging. Ogres have very little stamina. Keeper was in better shape than most ogres, but even he must be as weary as Skylan.

  “Haven’t you tortured me enough today?” said Skylan, annoyed. “What do you want?”

  “To thank you,” said Keeper. He kept his voice low, his eyes on the soldiers.

  “For what?” Skylan thought the ogre was jesting. “Not puking on your boots? Oh, I forgot. I did puke on your boots.”

  Keeper smiled, then grew serious. “You were right. I have grown too comfortable here. I have brought dishonor on myself and my people.”

  Skylan came to a sudden halt and stared at Keeper, an idea forming in his mind. He stared at the ogre so long, without saying a word, plans fomenting, that Keeper grew annoyed and the soldiers suspicious.

  “What’s the matter? Have I suddenly grown one eye like a Cyclops?” Keeper demanded.

  “No talking, you two,” a soldier yelled. “Keeper, the Legate wants you back at the villa. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  “Go bugger yourself,” Keeper muttered, but he obeyed.

  Turning his back on Skylan, he walked off, heading in the direction of the villa.

  Skylan ran soft-footed over the grass after Keeper. The soldier gave a warning shout, but it was too late. Skylan jumped on the ogre’s broad back. Keeper roared in anger and, beneath Skylan’s weight, fell to the ground.

  “Listen to me!” Skylan smashed the ogre’s forehead into the dirt and spoke into his ear. “Ogre warships are sailing to attack Sinaria.”

  Keeper managed to twist his head. One eye peered up at Skylan.

  “It’s true,” Skylan said, grinding his knee into Keeper’s back. “I overheard Zahakis and Acronis talking about it.”

  Keeper got his hands planted and heaved himself up off the ground, sending Skylan flying. He rolled out of the way just as Keeper’s boot slammed down, barely missing his head, and scrambled to his feet. He and Keeper glared and circled each other, ignoring the soldier’s orders for them to stop.

  “Are there more of your people in the city?” Skylan asked.

  “Yes,” said Keeper.

  “Can you get the word out?”

  Keeper nodded. They had no time for more before the soldiers came.

  “All right, break it up. Haven’t you savages had your fill of blood enough for one day?”

  Keeper wiped dirt and blood from his face.

  “Not nearly,” he said.

  Skylan smiled. The fire burned.

  It was only later, when he was half-asleep, that he realized his arm had not burned when he had attacked Keeper. Apparently Aelon had no problem with slaves killing each other.

  CHAPTER

  13

  * * *

  BOOK TWO

  Raegar sent a messenger to Treia, saying that he would meet her and Aylaen at the fane of the Spirit Priestesses at moonrise. The messenger gave Treia directions to the building, which was located in a distant and isolated part of the enclave. Treia made her way along the winding paths, stopping often to ask others if she was on the right path, and they reassured her. With her poor eyesight, Treia was often nervous being in strange places and she insisted on holding Aylaen’s hand, saying she needed someone to serve as her guide. In truth, Aylaen was so nervous, her hand was so cold, that Treia feared her sister might bolt.

  When they reached the garden and could see the walls of the Temple beyond, Aylaen stopped. She felt her legs go weak and she leaned against the wall.

  “I am afraid,” she said, trembling. “I don’t know if I can, Treia. This is not right. Garn is with Torval, in the Hall of Heroes. I am selfish—”

  “You are in love,” said Treia, wondering impatiently what had become of Raegar. She needed his help. She did not know how much longer she could keep hold of Aylaen. “There is no Hall of Heroes. It is all a lie. Garn’s spirit is lost, abandoned. You will find him and show him the way.”

  “Show him the way where?” Aylaen asked, puzzled.

  Treia checked an annoyed remark. How was she supposed to know? She was only repeating what she’d heard Raegar say. Hearing footsteps, she breathed a sigh of relief to see Raegar coming toward them. Treia lifted her lips to be kissed. Raegar brushed her cheek, then turned to Aylaen.

  “You do not look well, my dear,” he said gently. “Your grief is making you ill.”

  “I am not ‘your dear,’ ” said Aylaen, pulling away from him when he tried to take her hands. “I do not want to do this. I . . . want to go back.”

  “The choice is yours, of course,” said Raegar smoothly. “No one is forcing you. Standing on the threshold of Death requires courage. Only those whose love is strong dare make the attempt. You are young. Time has passed. It is natural that your love for Garn has waned—”

  “My love has not waned. I love him more than ever!” Aylaen cried. “I want to see him, to be with him. But he is in the care of the gods. . . .”

  “At least, you should make the attempt. If, as you say, Garn is in Torval’s Hall, carousing with the other warriors, he will not come and you will know that he has forgotten you. You need no longer grieve for him.”

  Aylaen was silent, stung by his words.

  “I will see for myself,” she muttered.

  Raegar started to give his arm to Aylaen. She disdained it and walked off on her own. Treia, casting him an angry look, seized his arm and the two walked together.

  “She will never have anything to do with you,” said Treia.

  “We will not speak of it,” said Raegar coldly.

  The Fane of the Spirit Priestesses was a small structure, cubic in shape, constructed of limestone blocks fronted with marble. The fane was simple and elegant in design. Columns on all four sides supported the roof. The building had no windows. A single door at the top of a flight of stairs provided entry.

  Unlike the Temple of Aelon, which was decorated with all manner of symbols and runes, this building was plain and unadorned. The magic worked by the Spirit Priestesses was delicate and sensitive as a strand of gossamer in an intricate web. The Spirit Priestesses had to be attuned to every quiver of every strand and could not be distracted by any other magic, even though it was the holy magic of their god.

  The Priest-General met them at the entrance to the fane. He glanced once at Raegar, a questioning look, and received a nod in return. Xydis smiled and greeted Aylaen kindly, expressing sorrow for her loss. He could see she was frightened and uncertain. He pressed her hand and spoke words of reassurance.

  Xydis rang a small bell and the bronze door opened.

  Aylaen hung back, shivering.

  “The ceremony is not horrible or terrifying. It is sacred, blessed. You will soon be re united with the man you love.”

  Xydis put a fatherly arm around Aylaen and led her over the threshold.

  Treia and Raegar were about to follow when Treia tightened her grip on Raegar’s hand and pulled him close.

  “You are sure this will go the way we want?” she said in an undertone.

  “The Spirit Priestesses know their business. And so does Aelon,” said Raegar in a whisper. He squeezed her hand in warning. “Now we must be silent.”

  They entered cool darkness perfumed with incense and the smell of melting wax. Tall, slender, wrought-iron candlesticks formed a large circle in the middle of the floor. A Spirit Priestess stood in the center of the circle, gazing at them without expression.

  She was an older woman of perhaps fifty years. Her face was seamed with the marks of age and was an odd contrast to the skin of her shaved head, which was smooth as a babe’s. Her eyes were large and calm and mild. She was there and not there. She saw them and yet she didn’t. Or rather, she saw them and was not much interested.

  “After one hears the voice of the god,” the Spirit Priestesses were wont to say, “all other voices are as the cawing of crows.”

  She had no snake tattoo. Instead
, three large diamond crystals were embedded in her flesh—one in her forehead and the other two on her cheeks. Raegar’s eyes opened wide when he saw her. He drew in an awed breath.

  “We are highly honored. She is Semelon, the Head of the Order,” Raegar whispered.

  The diamonds marked Semelon’s high ranking. Those of lower rank were given semiprecious gems. Slaves, like Skylan, made do with pulverized quartz. Semelon wore a plain white tunic that fell from thin shoulders and was belted around the waist. Her feet were bare, and she gestured to all of them to remove their shoes and leave them at the entrance.

  She did not speak, but made a gesture of welcome, extending her hands as if she would embrace them. A sense of peace stole over everyone, a quieting of the soul, an inner calm. Aylaen quit shivering and drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Xydis gave a slight inclination of his head to indicate their readiness.

  Semelon looked from one to another. She asked no questions, spoke no words. Gliding forward, she took hold of Aylaen’s hand and drew her into the circle of light. Aylaen went without hesitation, no longer fearful, no longer doubting.

  Semelon lifted two of the lighted candles from one of the candlesticks. She handed one candle to Aylaen, kept the other candle for herself. Semelon knelt on the floor in the middle of the circle and tilted the candle, causing the molten wax to drip onto the floor and form a small pool. She placed the end of her candle into the pool and gestured for Aylaen to do the same, indicating she was to place her candle about twenty paces from Semelon’s. She took two more candles and, giving one to Aylaen, put these on the floor at right angles from the others, forming a square within the circle.

  Semelon led Aylaen out of the square and, keeping hold of Aylaen’s hand, touched Aylaen’s fingers to the diamond in the left cheek and held it there. Semelon closed her eyes. Her lips moved in an incantation. They could not hear her words.

  A ghostly figure appeared in the square formed by the four candles. Treia sucked in her breath between her teeth and dug her nails into Raegar’s hand. He swallowed and backed up a step.