Bones of the Dragon (8 page)

“I will serve you, Owl Mother,” said Skylan hastily. He wanted to get this over with.

“Very well. I will do what I can. The magic is chancy, uncertain. I don’t promise anything.”

Owl Mother walked over to the part of the room concealed by the tapestry. She drew on a large leather glove and reached out her hand to pull the tapestry aside. Pausing, she glanced at Skylan.

“You must hold perfectly still,” she warned him. “Do not speak or cry out, no matter what you see. She is a young one and startles easily.”

Owl Mother disappeared behind the tapestry. He could hear an annoyed-sounding squawk and then Owl Mother’s voice speaking softly, lovingly, clucking and cajoling. Owl Mother came out from behind the tapestry. Perched on her gloved arm was an enormous bird. Skylan thought at first it was the largest hawk he’d ever seen.

Owl Mother drew closer, bringing the bird into the light.

Skylan was so astonished, he started to rise off the stool, then remembered, too late, he was not to make any sudden moves. The bird was not a bird. The bird was a beast, and the beast was a wyvern. At Skylan’s involuntary start, the wyvern reared back her head, flapped her wings, and screeched at him.

“I warned you to keep still, fool!” Owl Mother hissed angrily.

Skylan froze and forced himself to sit quietly, though his muscles shook with the effort. He liked to think he wasn’t afraid of anything, but magic was different. The bravest, boldest warrior could be excused for fearing the power of those who had been old when the gods themselves were young. His stomach clenched and his bowels gripped.

The wyvern’s red eyes glared at him. Her reptilian scales glistened orange in the firelight. Her wings, made of membrane stretched between the fine, delicate bones, were so thin he could see the light shine through them. Her long tail curled over Owl Mother’s wrist. Two clawed feet dug into the leather glove.

The wyvern looked deceptively like a dragon, but there was no relation, as Skylan well knew. He was accustomed to dragons, who had long been allies of the Vindrasi. The spiritbone of the great Dragon Kahg hung from a nail on the mast of the dragonship. The spirit of the dragon sailed with them, and when summoned by the prayers of the Bone Priestess, the dragon would take on physical form to join Skylan and his forces in battle.

Dragons were thinking, reasoning, intelligent beings, gifted with miraculous powers bestowed on them by their Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, consort of Torval.

The Vindrasi believed wyverns were made of magic in mockery of dragons. Wyverns belonged to the Nethervold, the twilight world of the fae folk. Most of mankind could not see the Nethervold. But there were some, like Owl Mother, who had learned how to draw aside the curtain of moonbeams and stardust that kept the two worlds apart. She had now opened that curtain for Skylan, and he was sorry he’d ever agreed to come.

“I think I should go. . . .” He spoke through stiff lips.

“Don’t move, and keep your mouth shut,” Owl Mother told him. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”

Holding the nervous wyvern on her arm, Owl Mother dipped her fingers in Skylan’s blood and traced a rune on his forehead and a similar rune on her
own forehead. She placed her hand on the rune on Skylan’s head and began to hum.

Her humming grew louder and louder, a single, jarring, off-key note that spread from her throat throughout her body. At the sound of her humming, the wyvern closed her eyes. She seemed entranced. Her wings folded at her sides. Her clawed feet eased their grip. She began to make a noise of her own, a high-pitched keening wail that was painful to the ears.

Except for a splitting headache, Skylan felt no different. He was disappointed and angered. All this fear and discomfort for nothing, and now he was bound by his word to do menial labor for this crazy old crone—

The magic burned him like a cauterizing iron, searing his flesh. He tried to bear the agony like a warrior, but he couldn’t manage. He fell onto the floor, writhing with pain, and finally passed out.

He woke, choking on something, to find Owl Mother bending over him. Seeing he was conscious, she reached into his mouth to pluck out a wad of cloth.

“So you wouldn’t swallow your tongue,” she told him.

Skylan looked nervously about for the wyvern. The beast was gone. He cast a glance at the tapestry and saw it was closed again. Relieved, he sank back on the floor, drawing in welcome breaths, and realized, suddenly, that he was no longer in pain. Sitting up, he examined his wound in the firelight.

Owl Mother had washed off the blood while he’d been unconscious. The wound had closed, leaving a long jagged weal that was tender to the touch. He no longer felt weak. Elated, he jumped to his feet and immediately regretted the sudden movement. The wound still hurt when he put his weight on his leg. He would in the future continue to rely on Desiria’s blessing. But at least he would be strong enough to slay ogres in the morning.

“Thank you, Owl Mother,” he said.

Pleased and grateful, he kissed her weathered cheek.

Owl Mother chuckled and shook her finger at him. “Don’t try to seduce me now. I don’t have time. You had best be going or you’ll be late.”

Skylan looked out the dwelling’s single window and was startled to see darkness. Night had fallen. Stars shone brightly.

“We are having a great feast tonight, Owl Mother,” said Skylan. “I killed a wild boar, and we are roasting it. I would be honored if you came.”

“I’m not much of a meat eater these days,” Owl Mother said, picking up a basin filled with water. “I can’t digest it.”

“Let me carry that,” Skylan offered, taking the basin from her and carrying it to the door. He tossed the water, stained red with his blood, out onto the grass.

“There will be a battle tomorrow,” said Skylan as he prepared to take his
leave. “We will win it, of course, but you may not be safe here. You should go into the hills.”

Owl Mother grinned and jerked a thumb to indicate the corner screened by the tapestry.

“My friends will take care of me,” she said complacently. “You should concern yourself with yourself, young Skylan.”

“They are only ogres,” said Skylan.

“Only ogres.” Owl Mother smiled derisively. “The thread of your wyrd snaps tonight, Skylan.”

He stared at her, shocked. When a man’s wyrd snapped, he died.

She poked him in the chest with her finger. “Tomorrow your wyrd is spun anew. Try not to screw it up.”

She left him, disappearing into the kitchen. He paused a moment, wondering what she had meant. It made no sense.

“Crazy old crone,” he muttered.

“I almost forgot,” Owl Mother yelled at him. “You must honor my mysteries, young man. Tell no one what happened here.”

“I will not, Owl Mother,” said Skylan. He had no intention of ever thinking about it again, let alone telling anyone. He clasped the silver axe. “I swear by Torval.”

“Torval!” Owl Mother cackled. “He’s got his own problems. Speaking of which, you had better leave now. The wheel turns.”

Bright orange light flared in the night sky.

The Torgun had lit the beacon fire.

I
n the lord city of Vindraholm, across the Gymir Fjord from the Torgun town of Luda, Draya, Kai Priestess of the Vektia, kneeled before the statue of the Dragon Goddess, Vindrash, and in a tear-choked voice beseeched the goddess to answer her.

The Great Hall of the Gods in Vindraholm embodied the soul of the Vindrasi nation. The Hall had been constructed many, many years ago, during a period of Vindrasi prosperity, and it was considered one of the marvels of the nation. Designed by the famous Chief of Chiefs Beocik Sundgridr,
the Great Hall of the Gods was built in the shape of a Vindrasi dragonship; the only difference being that the enormous “ship” had two “prows”—each carved in the shape of the head of a fierce dragon. The Great Hall stood on a high point of land overlooking the sea, and the head of one dragon stared out across the waves while the other gazed back on land. Thus, it was said, no enemy could sneak up on the Vindrasi.

The outer walls of the Great Hall were decorated with the colorful shields of all the Vindrasi clans, placed as they would be placed on the rack along the sides of a dragonship. The roof was made of wood, not thatch, and the Great Hall had a wooden floor, resembling the deck of a ship.

The interior of the Great Hall was shadowy and windowless. A single opening in the ceiling above a fire pit allowed the light of the Sun Goddess, Aylis, to illuminate and bless the Hall. In the winter months, the Kai Priestess lit a small fire to keep her warm as she went about her duties. Such a fire would have been welcome to Draya now. The day had been hot, but the sun had set prematurely, the goddess hiding her bright face behind a scarf of clouds. The air inside the Great Hall was chill, and Draya shivered in her heavy robes.

She could have summoned one of the young acolytes to light a fire. She knew quite well it would be useless, to say nothing of the fact that the girl would look at her strangely for requesting a fire in the middle of the hottest spring anyone could remember. It was not cold that raised the flesh on Draya’s arms and caused her hands to tremble as she clasped them in supplication. It was fear. Fear caused the tears to well up in her eyes, so that the statue of Vindrash blurred in the waning light. Fear choked Draya’s voice as she begged the goddess to break her silence and once more speak to her devoted servant.

The statue of Vindrash, the Dragon Goddess, was the Great Hall’s centerpiece. Carved of a rare and exotic stone known as jadeite, the statue was translucent emerald green. Beautifully detailed, down to each individual scale on the dragon’s body, the statue had two large rubies for eyes, and fangs carved of ivory. The statue was prized beyond measure, for neither the stone jadeite nor ivory could be found in this part of the world.

The statue had been brought to Vindraholm by the same Chief who had designed the Great Hall, the legendary warrior Beocik. After the Hall had been built, Beocik stated that he would sail the world to find the perfect representation of the Dragon Vindrash, the patron goddess of his people. He set out on his dragonship with thirty men. Years passed, and he did not return. Everyone assumed, sorrowfully, that Beocik had perished. And then one morning, his dragonship sailed into the bay. It had no crew. The ship had been guided by the spirit of the dragon, and it bore the body of the
Chief wrapped in his cloak and covered with his shield, and the wondrous statue.

The statue was the length of a man’s arm from elbow to fingertip, extremely heavy and so valuable that a special hiding place had been created for it, a large hole dug out of the ground beneath the floorboards of the Great Hall. When an enemy threatened, the statue could be lowered into the hole, which was then covered by wooden planking. The Great Hall of the Gods was the only building in the city of Vindraholm to have a wooden floor, and this was the reason.

Draya gazed into the statue’s ruby eyes.

“Vindrash,” she whispered, hoarse from days of fruitless pleading, “let me know if I have somehow offended you! If I did, I did not mean to. I will do whatever you ask of me to make amends. I would endure any pain, gladly suffer any punishment if you would only speak to me. I cannot bear your silence!”

Years ago, when Draya had been newly chosen by the Kai Moot as Kai Priestess, she had gone to her prayers with joy in her heart, as though meeting a dear friend. Draya and the goddess had formed a special bond, one that was unusually close. Other Kai Priestesses had placed ambition and love of power above their faith, but Draya was a devoted follower, sincere in her worship. She had dedicated her life to the goddess, and the goddess had rewarded her by speaking to her on an almost daily basis.

As the years passed and times grew hard for the Vindrasi, the goddess did not come so often. Draya blamed herself. She had been too importunate, constantly badgering the goddess to intervene with the other gods, imploring Svanses to ease the harsh winters or persuading Akaria to bring rain to end summer droughts. Draya had at last sensed Vindrash’s sorrow and her helplessness, and the priestess quit making such demands. When the goddess came to her, neither of them spoke. They comforted each other.

But now a fortnight had passed, and in that time Vindrash had not appeared to Draya at all. The priestess was spending almost all her days and most of her nights in the Hall, neglecting her many duties, forbidding anyone to disturb her, even forbidding the other Bone Priestesses and acolytes from entering the Hall.

Draya had told no one about the goddess’s refusal to speak to her, keeping the goddess’s secrets as Draya kept her own. Draya was Kai Priestess, a position of honor many women coveted. If they had known the truth of her life, they would have pitied her deeply—and that was the very reason none knew the truth. Draya was too proud to let anyone see her suffering.

Thirteen years ago, the Kai Priestess had died, and Draya, at the age of seventeen, had been chosen by the Kai Moot to be their leader. Their choice
had been presented to the gods for approval, and Draya received a clear sign of Vindrash’s favor—on that night, a star fell from the sky. (One Bone Priestess had argued that a falling star was a sign of doom, not a mark of approval, but all knew she wanted the position for herself, and no one paid heed to her.)

Draya had been elated, and her joy was complete on the day she was married to Horg Thekkson, Chief of Chiefs. Draya had no say in her marriage; the Kai Priestess was always the consort of the Chief of Chiefs. She had not minded. She fancied herself in love with the bold and handsome Chief.

Horg Thekkson had been thirty years old then, and despite his age, he had been strong and brave and smart—or so he had seemed to the seventeen-year-old girl who knew little of life, having spent her years since the age of five in service to the gods. Sadly Draya soon came to learn that Horg was a sham—more cunning than smart, more brash than bold, more bully than brave.

Horg made it clear from the night of the wedding that he did not love her, nor was he even attracted to her. Horg liked plump, big-breasted women, and Draya was too thin and bony for his tastes. But Horg was thirty years old, and he still had no sons. So though he didn’t like her, he used Draya like a breeding mare, coupling with her night after night, and then leaving her to spend the time more pleasantly with his latest concubine. Draya longed for a child herself, and she endured his brutish treatment without complaint.