Bones of the Dragon (54 page)

“Listen to me!” Bjorn said urgently. “Aylaen told them there was a way she could become a Bone Priestess without having to be an acolyte first. She claimed there was historical precedent.”

Bjorn paused at this point to take a gulp of ale. He seemed to feel he needed it.

Skylan waited in suspense. “Yes, well?”

“She reminded them of Griselda the Man-Woman,” said Bjorn.

Skylan’s jaw sagged. He stared at Bjorn in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Trust me, I could not have made this up,” said Bjorn.

Skylan looked accusingly at Garn. “Did you know about this?”

Garn shook his head. “I had no idea!” He sounded as appalled as Skylan felt.

“What about Treia?” Skylan asked. “She would not approve.”

“Treia said she did. She said she supported her sister in her decision. The Priestesses talked it over, and in the end they all agreed,” said Bjorn. “Aylaen will become a man-woman and sail with us to war.”

“No, she won’t,” said Skylan. “I will forbid it.”

“I don’t think you can,” said Bjorn. “The Kai approved because Aylaen told them it was you who gave her the idea.”

S
kylan left in search of Aylaen, taking Garn with him. If both of them talked to her, they agreed that they might be able to make her see reason. They went to the Hall, only to hear from Erdmun that the Kai Moot had ended. A few Bone Priestesses remained, but Treia was not among them and Aylaen would be with her sister. One of the Priestesses said she thought Treia and Aylaen had gone to Fria’s dwelling, where they had been invited to stay while they were in Vindraholm. Skylan and Garn walked to Fria’s, only to learn that the sisters planned to sail back on the
Venjekar
. The young men hastened to the shore. The dragonship had already departed.

They went back to Skylan’s dwelling. Bjorn had left to join his brother. Wulfe lay curled up asleep in a corner, his hands and feet twitching.

“I’ve been thinking, Garn,” Skylan said. “Perhaps Aylaen is right. If this is the only way she can become a Bone Priestess, then she should undergo the ritual. She should come with us.”

“You can’t mean that,” said Garn flatly.

“Aylaen is trained in both axe and sword. She was at the battle with the ogres, and she never flinched, even when a spear landed right beside her.”

“She wasn’t in the shield-wall, Skylan,” Garn said grimly. “With men being disemboweled and brains splattering in her face.”

“I will see to it that nothing happens to her,” Skylan assured him. “I will put her with the warriors who guard Treia. Both women will have the Dragon Kahg to look out for them.”

“She will still be in danger. Bone Priestesses are often killed,” Garn said.

“I will order additional warriors to guard her—”

“—which means you must take men from the shield-wall, and that puts everyone in danger. You are going to imperil the entire mission for your own lust!”

Garn was pale; his eyes burned. “This scheme of yours will get Aylaen killed!”

He stalked out, slamming the door to Skylan’s dwelling with such force that bits of it splintered.

Skylan sat down wearily in his chair. He could be rightfully accused of many crimes, but this was not one of them. He had mentioned the story of Griselda
the Man-Woman to Aylaen only in passing. He had certainly never meant to suggest to Aylaen that she emulate the fabled female warrior!

Skylan left Vindraholm the next morning, sailing in a small boat back to Luda to prepare the
Venjekar
for war. Two dragonships, those belonging to the Svegund and Martegnan Clans, would meet them at Luda in two days. During the short journey across the bay, he mulled over what Garn had said. When he reached home, he went so far as to discuss the problem about Aylaen with Norgaard. The old Chief agreed completely with Garn and added a forceful argument of his own. None of the warriors would be comfortable fighting alongside a woman.

Yet, this was the only way Aylaen could become a Bone Priestess, the only way she could become Skylan’s wife.

He was still undecided over what to do the night before they were to set sail. He lay awake, waiting tensely for the draugr to come for their game of dragonbones. She did not appear, however, and after a time, Skylan fell into an exhausted sleep.

He was in a battle, but not the shield-wall. His warriors were scattered all over the field, some fighting, some fleeing, others helpless from terror. He ran from one group to the other, urging them to fight the faceless enemy. Garn was at his right hand and Aylaen was on his left. All the time he was urging his men to fight, he was ordering her to go back to the ship. She wouldn’t listen to him. And then the enemy was on them and he and Garn and Aylaen were fighting for their lives.

Skylan saw a flash of steel out of the corner of his eye and saw the faceless foe aiming a spear at Garn’s back. Skylan shouted a warning, but Garn was battling two of the enemy in front of him and he did not hear. Skylan ran toward the spear thrower, his sword raised, when he heard a cry, and glancing back, he saw Aylaen slip in a pool of blood and fall to the ground. The enemy was on her. She struggled to regain her feet. Skylan would never reach her in time. The axe fell. . . .

Skylan woke, sweating and panting and shaking. His terror was real, and it took him long moments to realize he’d been dreaming. Flinging on his clothes, he grabbed a lighted torch and went to talk with Aylaen.

He came to Treia’s dwelling. Sigurd had been furious when he heard that Aylaen was going to undergo the ritual of the man-woman. He had made life so unbearable for her that she had left, moved in with Treia. Skylan found the house dark. It was the dead of night. They would have been asleep for a long time.

Skylan banged on the door with his fist and shouted for Aylaen.

The door opened a crack.

“Who is that?” Treia asked, shielding her eyes against the flaring light.

“You know who it is!” Skylan said. “I want to talk to Aylaen.”

“You cannot,” said Treia. “She is in purification for her ritual. She cannot see or speak to anyone.”

“She’ll speak to me!” Skylan said, and he lunged at the door, prepared to shoulder his way inside.

Treia blocked the entrance with her body. “The gods forbid it.”

“Get out of my way,” said Skylan angrily, “or by Torval I will knock you down!”

Treia’s lips twisted in a mocking smile. “You are too late,” she said. “See for yourself.”

She pointed at his feet.

Skylan kept his gaze fixed on her. “I don’t believe you. Let me inside.”

Treia shrugged, not caring whether he believed her or not. “You are too late,” she repeated.

Skylan slowly and reluctantly looked to where she pointed. At first he couldn’t see anything, and then he stared, sick with dismay at the sight of masses of beautiful, luxuriant, flame-red curls lying in a shining heap on the ground.

“We will join you on the ship at dawn,” said Treia.

She shut the door in his face.

Skylan was tempted to batter the door down, but what would he do then? He picked up one of the shining curls and smoothed it between his fingers.

He let it fall to the ground and walked slowly home.

Skylan wasn’t the only person roaming the woods that night. Wulfe had been visiting Owl Mother, telling her everything that had happened during the Kai Moot and after. The two worked as they talked. Wulfe ground leaves in a stone bowl. He tied bunches of lavender and hung them from the ceiling to dry, pausing often to sniff hungrily at the stewpot.

Owl Mother had little to say, but Wulfe knew she was listening to him, because every so often she would chuckle and talk about people sticking their heads into hornets’ nests or wading hip-deep in bogs of their own making.

Wulfe talked until he didn’t have any more to say. He teased the wyvern to make it snap its beak at him, for which he was scolded by Owl Mother, who fed him a bowl of stew and told him he was welcome to spend the night, if he didn’t mind sleeping on the floor.

Wulfe thanked Owl Mother, but said he had to leave. The Torgun were sailing to war tomorrow, and Wulfe planned to go with them.

Owl Mother eyed him. “I’m surprised Skylan agreed to take you.”

“He didn’t,” Wulfe said calmly. “He thinks I’m staying with you while he’s gone. He won’t know I’m on board until it’s too late to send me back.”

“The warriors will be armed with axes and swords and spears,” said Owl Mother. “The ship will stink of iron.”

“I know,” Wulfe said, shuddering, “I don’t want to go. But I have to. I’ve been thinking about it, you see, and I realized that Skylan is my geas.”

Owl Mother grinned. “Your geas? What evil daemon laid such a thankless charge upon you as that young man?”

“No daemon laid it on me!” Wulfe protested indignantly. “I saved Skylan’s life. His wyrd is in my care.”

“You just take care of yourself,” Owl Mother told him. She paused in her work and fixed him with her shrewd gaze. “And remember our lessons.”

Wulfe nodded gravely. “I’ll bring you back a present, Owl Mother. What would you like? A sack of rubies?”

“Bring yourself back,” Owl Mother stated grumpily. “
And
that fool Skylan. He might end up being worth something someday.” She snorted. “Geas indeed!”

Owl Mother walked with Wulfe to the door. She kissed him on his forehead, reminding him of his mother. Putting both hands on his shoulders, she looked him in the eyes.

“The druids meant well, Wulfe, but they were wrong. Your gift is just that—a gift, not a curse. Use it. Use it well. Use it sparingly. But use it. Don’t be afraid. Do you understand?”

Wulfe gazed at her, wide-eyed. He wasn’t sure he did understand, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and so he gave an abrupt nod and then hurried into the night.

Wulfe liked being out alone in the darkness. He had never been afraid of the dark, perhaps because night wasn’t all that dark to him. The lambent gleam of moon and stars, mingled with the soft radiance of life that shone from trees and grass and flowers and animals, lit Wulfe’s way. It had been nighttime when his father and his father’s family had changed from their wolf forms into humans. And it had been night when his faery mother, in all her shimmering splendor, had come dancing through the darkness to sing lullabies to her child.

Walking through the forest, Wulfe saw the dryads slumbering in the boughs of their trees, and he bade them a silent farewell. He said good-bye to the naiad, who lay in her stream, her head pillowed on a smooth stone, the water running sensually over her naked body. She murmured in her sleep, and stretched out in languishing slumber. He encountered a pack of wolves,
and he spoke to them politely, but they were hungry and searching for food and they had no time for him.

He took the path that led past Treia’s dwelling. He always kept an eye on her, though at this time of night she would be asleep. He padded softly up to the door, put his ear to it, and listened. Not hearing anything, he started to continue on. Something jumped out at him, a hand grabbed hold of his arm, and another clapped over his mouth and dragged him into the underbrush.

“Wulfe! Ouch, damn it, don’t bite me! It’s Garn. Be quiet. I’m not going to hurt you. I thought I might find you sneaking about here tonight. I’ve seen you watching Treia’s house before. What are you doing here?”

Wulfe stared at him in quivering silence and did not answer. He tensed, poised for flight the moment Garn let him loose.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” said Garn, sighing. “The truth is, I’ve been waiting for you. I need you to do something for me.”

Wulfe waited, not about to commit himself.

“I need to see Aylaen, and Treia won’t let anyone inside,” Garn continued. “She just sent Skylan away. I was thinking you might be able to sneak in without waking Treia, tell Aylaen I have to talk to her.”

“I can do that,” Wulfe said cautiously.

“
Will
you do it?” Garn asked, and he sounded wistful.

Wulfe thought it over and nodded. He waited with Garn, both of them silent, until Garn deemed that Treia must have gone back to bed. Wulfe sneaked across the clearing in front of the longhouse. He paused a moment to stare curiously at the tangle of red curls on the ground and then, shrugging to himself, continued on.

He pushed gently on the door, and it yielded to his touch. He slipped inside. The fire had been doused, the stewpot cleaned out and put away, for both women would be leaving tomorrow. Wulfe paused, trying to find his way around, when he saw Aylaen’s head, pale and shimmering, floating disembodied in the darkness.

Wulfe was panic-stricken until he realized Aylaen was sitting on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her. She was not asleep. Her shadowed eyes stared at him.

“Wulfe?” she whispered, her voice muffled as though she had been crying. “What do you want? Skylan’s not here. He left.”

“Garn is here,” Wulfe whispered back. “He’s outside. He wants to talk to you.”

Treia stirred in her sleep, muttering something. Aylaen clasped hold of Wulfe’s wrist. Her fingers were cold and smooth, like he imagined the fingers
of the draugr. He didn’t like her touch, and he squirmed out of it. Treia settled back down. Aylaen gave a wistful sigh.

“Is he very angry with me?” she asked.

Wulfe shrugged. He had no way of knowing, nor did he particularly care.

“Tell him . . . No.” Aylaen abruptly threw off the blanket and stood up. “I’ll tell him.”

She walked almost as softly as Wulfe. The two slipped out the door. Wulfe pointed to where Garn waited amidst the trees.

“Thank you,” said Aylaen, and she added sharply, “You can run along now.”

Wulfe trotted away obediently. When he’d gone a short distance, he turned around and doubled back, placing himself where he could see and hear.

“Skylan was wrong when he asked you to undergo the ritual, Aylaen,” Garn was saying. “He knows that now. He made a mistake. You don’t have to do this for him—”

“For him?” Aylaen repeated, amazed. She ran her hand over her shorn head. “I didn’t do this for Skylan!”