Bones of the Dragon (9 page)

Months passed, and Draya did not conceive. Horg blamed her. Draya blamed herself, until, shamed by his accusations, she began to make discreet inquiries. She discovered that Horg had never fathered a child by any woman, not even his numerous concubines. Life was difficult for Draya, but she took comfort in her duties as Kai Priestess. Then, about a year into their marriage, Horg was wounded in battle.

The wound—a spear thrust in his side—had not been bad. If he’d come to Draya and asked her to pray to Desiria to heal him, he would likely have recovered in a day or two. Instead, Horg had publicly spurned her. He had gone about telling everyone he did not trust the gods, who had given him a barren woman for his wife. He had sought treatment from one of his concubines, who claimed to have magical powers of healing. If she did, her magic had failed her. The wound festered. Horg was in terrible agony for many days, raving with fever. He finally recovered, but the wound had left deep and ugly scars on Horg’s body and his mind.

He took to drinking hard cider, claiming that he did so to ease his pain. At least, he ceased his efforts to father a child with Draya. He no longer forced her to have sex with him. He beat her instead.

Horg blamed Draya and the gods for his problems and those of the Vindrasi
people. He claimed he had lost faith in them. Draya suspected that this was just an excuse for him to take out his wrath on her. Horg hadn’t lost his faith—a man couldn’t lose something he’d never had. Draya hadn’t lost faith, even though her prayers often went unanswered. Like a sailor washed overboard, she clung to her faith as to a piece of driftwood to keep herself from drowning.

Draya sighed deeply and sat back on her heels to gaze sadly at the statue. She felt closer to the gods than to people, and if she lost the goddess’s trust and love, she did not think she could bear to go on living.

Draya heard raised voices and men shouting outside the Great Hall. Absorbed in her cares and her sorrows, she’d paid little heed. Only when one of her acolytes called for her by name did she rouse herself.

“Draya! Priestess, are you there?”

Draya wondered irritably why the girl didn’t just enter; then she remembered that she’d forbidden anyone to come inside. The girl hovered in the doorway. She held a blazing torch in her hand, and Draya realized she had been sitting alone in the darkness all this time.

“Priestess?” the girl called again.

“I am here,” Draya answered. “Wait a moment while I light the candles.”

She had not known it was so late. The altar candles should have been lighted with the setting of the sun. The flame gleamed in the ruby eyes of the statue of Vindrash. Draya glanced at the statue and stood with her hand in midair, arrested by the statue’s gleaming eyes. The ruby eyes stared at her, flickering as though alive. Their gaze was not warm and inviting. The eyes were cold and sharp, like the prickly light of a red star.

Draya stared so long, she forgot the lighted brand in her hand. The fire consumed the stick of wood, burning her fingers. She muttered in pain and dropped the brand and turned her attention to the acolyte. Draya could feel the statue’s eyes still watching her.

“Yes, child, what is it?” Draya asked.

The girl was one of the young acolytes, about ten years old, and she was breathless from running and excitement.

“Trouble, Priestess!” the girl gasped. “The Torgun have lit the beacon fire!”

That was alarming news. The lighting of a beacon fire happened in only the most dire emergency, anything from plague to flood to an enemy invasion.

“Has Horg been told?” Draya asked immediately. “Has the Chief returned? Does he know?”

Horg had left a few days ago, telling her he was going to visit a neighboring clan. As Chief of Chiefs, he was required to travel among the clans,
settling arguments before they turned into blood feuds, hearing grievances, handing down judgments. Disputes were constantly arising among the clans—fights over the shifting of a boundary stone, cattle stealing, a marriage arrangement gone bad.

Horg was supposed to keep disputes from devolving into war. Draya heard complaints by her Bone Priestesses that Horg was worse than useless. These trips for him were nothing more than an excuse for drunken revelry and a chance to sleep with any wretched female foolish enough to think she might gain something out of bedding the Chief of Chiefs.

Horg’s failings meant that the Vindrasi nation was fractured, divided. Most of the clan chiefs had long ago lost respect for him, though they were careful not to show it. Horg might be too weak to do much good, but he was strong enough to do a great deal of harm.

“The Chief of Chiefs has returned,” the girl reported. “He has gone to Torval’s Rock to see for himself.”

“Did Horg send you to fetch me?” Draya asked.

“No, Priestess,” replied the acolyte innocently. “Some of the people wanted to know if you were coming. The Chief said you were at your prayers and not to be disturbed. He could deal with this. It was Priestess Fria who told me I was to fetch you.”

Seeing Draya’s face, the little girl faltered. “Did I do wrong, Priestess?”

“No, you did quite right, child,” said Draya, curving her lips into the false smile that came so easily to her these days.

She took the torch from the girl and used it to light a torch of her own. She was leaving the Hall, just about to shut the door, when she heard a voice speak her name.

“Yes, child, what is it?” Draya asked.

“I didn’t say anything, Priestess,” said the girl.

Red light illuminated the Great Hall. The goddess’s ruby eyes burned. Draya fancied she heard a breath whispering, “Make haste, Draya! Make haste!”

Draya did as the goddess commanded, walking as fast as she dared with only the torch to provide light. Draya would have been elated at once more hearing the goddess’s beloved voice—if she had not heard that voice tremble with fear.

Vindraholm, the lord city of the Vindrasi nation, was many times larger than the Torgun village of Luda, for the Heudjun Clan, who had the honor of being the guardians of the lord city, was larger and wealthier than the Torgun.
But even the Heudjun were feeling the effects of a bad winter and the spring drought.

As Draya hastened through the streets, she saw a young woman seated near a longhouse door. The woman’s eyes were sunken, her face pale and drawn. Draya knew her. The woman had recently lost her firstborn child. She stared at Draya as she hurried by. Draya had tried to save the child, but there had been nothing she could do except pray to Desiria, who had not responded. The tiny babe did not live to see the sunrise. Draya had tried to pray to the goddess to comfort the family, but her words rang hollow. After that, she had taken to sequestering herself in the Great Hall.

Torval’s Rock was ablaze in torchlight. A large crowd had gathered to stare across the fjord at the beacon fire, speculating excitedly on what dire occurrence had befallen the Torgun Clan.

Horg was present, surrounded by his cronies. They stood clustered together in a small group, aloof from the rest. As Draya approached, she could hear Horg saying something in a loud voice. She couldn’t understand him from this distance, but his remark was greeted with shouts of laughter from his cronies. The rest of the crowd, Draya noted, did not seem to think his remark funny. No one else laughed.

The people of the Heudjun Clan were unhappy and discontent. They had lost respect for Horg. They considered his judgments arbitrary, favoring those who could give him something in return. Many seasons had passed since he’d led the warriors in a raid. When the winter was over and the ships could take to the seas again, the warriors had waited in eager anticipation for this season’s expeditions. Horg had refused to go, claiming that he’d received unfavorable signs from the gods.

Someone sighted her, and word went about that the Kai Priestess had arrived. The crowd parted for Draya. Everyone had words of greeting and respect for her. They might dislike her husband, but they honored her.

Horg turned to face her. His bloodshot eyes narrowed, warning, threatening. He wanted to strike fear into her, and she wondered uneasily why. What is going on? What is he doing? What has he done?

As she drew nearer to Horg, she could smell the sour stench of cider. The fury-filled eyes were bleary and having trouble focusing; he swayed slightly where he stood. Draya understood now why Fria had sent for her.

Draya found her friend waiting anxiously for her on the outskirts of the crowd. Fria gripped Draya’s arm and hissed in her ear, “Horg is drunk!”

“I can see that for myself,” Draya returned, deeply troubled.

The Vindrasi people worshipped Joabis, God of the Revel, and enjoyed the ale and cider that were his gifts to mankind. But they had small tolerance
for drunkenness. Horg had been known to imbibe more than was good for him on occasion, but she had never seen him this drunk before.

Fria gripped her harder. “Horg says that ogre ships were sighted along the coastline, and he claims the Torgun are responsible and he refuses to go to their aid!”

Draya stared at her friend in shocked disbelief. “He will not answer their call for help? He will not fight? What is his reason?”

“Horg says the Torgun brought this on themselves by defying him and going raiding on their own. He says whatever befalls the Torgun is a punishment from the gods. Horg claims Torval told you that he was not to interfere. Our people don’t like it, but if the god truly said that the Torgun were to be punished . . .”

Draya understood the problem. Clans often intermarried, and many Heudjun had friends or relations among the Torgun. Even those who had blood feuds with the Torgun did not like the idea of allowing the ogres to attack fellow Vindrasi. But if Horg was correct about the Torgun going against the will of the gods, then he was entirely in his rights to refuse to interfere. The people turned to Draya, to their Kai Priestess, for judgment in this matter, and she understood now why Horg was silently threatening her.

She knew the truth. She had not given Horg a sign from Torval. He was expecting her to go along with his lie. She had done so before, when he’d made such claims about the gods, to save herself from a beating. She had felt wretchedly guilty over it afterwards.

Most Vindrasi women could divorce a man who abused them. A Kai Priestess could not divorce her husband, the Chief of Chiefs, no matter what he did to her. Brought together by the will of the gods—the holiest woman matched with the strongest, bravest warrior—she and Horg were supposed to be above the failings of ordinary mortals. He was the leader of the temporal. She was the leader of the spiritual. The survival of the Vindrasi people was reliant on the stability of their union.

“Vindrash help us!” Draya prayed in agony. “Vindrash help me.”

She clasped Fria’s hand tightly, silently thanking her for the warning; then she left her friend and walked toward the knot of warriors. Since she did not immediately speak out against him, Horg assumed she was sufficiently cowed. He gave her a smug, knowing smile and took up his conversation.

“The Torgun should have listened to me when I ordered them not to go,” he said loudly. “But Norgaard’s spoiled whelp, Skylan, always does what he wants. He took his warriors out, and the raid was a disaster. The ogres pursued them, and now the boy finds himself in trouble and he comes running to me, begging me to pull his fat from the fire! This is the gods’ punishment upon the Torgun,” Horg repeated. “I will not interfere!”

“But if the ogres slay the Torgun, lord, they will attack us next,” said one of the young warriors. “What do we gain by refusing to help our cousins?”

Horg snorted. “The Torgun warriors may have their noses bloodied and their heads cracked, but they will defeat the ogres.”

The crowd agreed with this reasoning, for all knew ogres were no match for Vindrasi. Horg should have stopped then, but he blundered drunkenly on. “And if the Torgun
are
all killed, we know how lazy ogres are. Once their ships are loaded with Torgun cattle and silver, the ogres will sail back to their homeland. They will not attack us. We are safe. Go to your beds.”

Faces flushed in anger. No one moved and no one spoke, not even Horg’s cronies. The Torgun would defeat the ogres, of course. They were Vindrasi, after all. Still, even Vindrasi warriors lost on occasion, and every person could picture the scene of ogres rampaging through the Torgun village, burning and looting, slaughtering their kinsmen and friends. They stared balefully at Horg.

“What is the matter?” Horg glowered at them. “I told you! It is Torval’s will! His punishment! Do you go against the will of the gods?”

“No Vindrasi warrior ever walked away from a fight, lord,” Sven, one of the older warriors, stated. “I cannot believe Torval would order us to do so now. I want to hear this from the Kai Priestess.”

Horg’s eyes shifted to Draya. His message was clear.

Support me, woman, or you will regret it
.

Draya shuddered beneath her fur cloak. Horg was cunning in his torment. People would talk if the Kai Priestess were suddenly to appear among them with a bruised face. Horg hit her in places that left no mark. In the distance, the beacon fire burned bright as the fire in the statue’s ruby eyes.

“Look at Horg, Draya. . . . Look closely. . . .”

The goddess’s voice was a whisper, barely heard above the mutterings of the crowd.

Draya looked intently at Horg. She saw nothing new. A large man, big-boned, well-muscled, though the muscle was buried beneath layers of flab. He was clean-shaven, as were all warriors during raiding season. A beard gave an enemy a handhold. Men shaved in the spring, grew their beards back in the winter, to protect against the cold. His hair was a nondescript color, more gray than anything else, worn down his back in a single braid.

He wore a long leather tunic and breeches and boots—no cloak, for Horg was hot-blooded and never minded even the most extreme cold. He had been handsome, and some women still considered him good-looking—though the once-firm jawline was starting to blur, and the flesh of his face sagged into jowls that were beginning to swallow the golden Vektan Torque he wore around his neck, a mark of his rank.