Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  “Then what do I do about Aylaen?” Skylan asked.

  “I don’t know, Skylan,” said Garn.

  “I will ask her to wait for me,” Skylan decided. “The Kai Priestess is over thirty. She can’t live much longer—”

  Garn shook his head in exasperation. “Think, Skylan! Aylaen would have to first be Kai Priestess in order to marry you! She’s not even a Bone Priestess—”

  “She must become one, then,” said Skylan. “You must tell her, Garn. Tell her that she has to start studying to be a Bone Priestess.”

  “Skylan, you’re not serious—”

  Skylan ignored him. “I like this plan! Aylaen will move to Vindraholm. As Chief of Chiefs I must live in the lord city, as well. She will study with the Kai, and we can be together. What’s wrong? Why do you look at me like that?”

  But his friend had stalked off, going over to sit down beside Norgaard.

  Skylan glared after Garn. He was about to pursue him; then he realized he didn’t have the strength. He was worn out, not only from the battle and pain, but also from the excitement, the upheaval, the turmoil in his head and heart. Nothing had turned out like he had expected.

  “I risked my life. I won a great victory,” he told himself. “I deserve to be Chief of Chiefs! Yet now my father hates me. Garn won’t speak to me. I have to marry an old hag. . . .”

  He sagged down onto the deck and closed his eyes, trying to think things over.

  “Forgive me, lord. . . .”

  Skylan jerked his head up.

  The Kai Priestess was back again, kneeling in front of him. “I am sorry. I should have attended to your wounds.” She started to tug on his boot.

  Skylan was about to tell the old woman impatiently that his wounds were nothing. He had no need of her fussing over him. Then he noticed Garn and his father both watching him, and he choked back the words. He forced himself to sit in silence, allowing Draya to pull off his boot and bathe his wound with a cloth she had dipped in seawater. The salt in the wound stung worse than the bite of the axe, and he clamped his teeth over the pain. Her fingers were cold; her thin hands were bony, like claws.

  She is all bone, Skylan thought, no softness anywhere. He counted ten gray hairs on her head. Her breasts were barely visible beneath her dress, and he imagined them sagging down to her belly.

  At least she is so old she will not expect me to bed her, Skylan thought, comforted. No matter that he was married, he would not break his vow to Aylaen, that he would love no other woman except her.

  “I am sorry, lord, did I hurt you?” Draya asked in concern, feeling him flinch.

  “No, Priestess,” he said. “My leg is much better.” He hurriedly pulled on his boot before she could offer to do it for him. “My throat is parched. If I could have a drink—”

  “I will gladly fetch you something, lord,” Draya said eagerly and hastened away.

  He heard laughter. A group of Torgun warriors had come aboard the dragonship to do honor to their new Chief, and he saw them laughing—he thought—at him.

  “Shut your mouths!” Skylan said angrily.

  The warriors stared at him in puzzlement, and he realized they had been laughing because they were in good spirits. The Torgun had gone from being the clan at the bottom of the dung heap to the foremost clan of the Vindrasi, the clan of the Chief of Chiefs, and they were celebrating.

  The Kai Priestess came to his rescue. “The Chief of Chiefs is right,” Draya said reprovingly. She looked pointedly at the corpse wrapped in its bloody shroud. “The dead have not departed. Your mirth is not seemly.”

  The warriors spoke their respectful apologies. Horg had been this woman’s husband, after all, and although the Priestess did not appear to be overcome with grief, she might be bravely covering her true feelings.

  The Priestess handed Skylan a horn filled with ale. “I thought you would find this more refreshing than wine, lord,” she said, and she gave him a tremulous smile.

  Her eyes were large and brown and liquid, like a cow’s.

  “Thank you, Priestess,” Skylan said. Her hand touched his as he handed back the empty drinking horn, and she blushed like a maiden.

  “I will bring you more, lord,” she offered.

  “Not now,” he said, adding, “I must apologize to my father.”

  The Kai Priestess glanced at Norgaard; then she looked back at Skylan. “You have nothing to apologize for, lord. You fought the Vutmana. The choice was rightly yours.”

  “I know that, but I made a vow to him and to Torval that my father would be Chief of Chiefs,” Skylan said, sighing. “Will I be punished for breaking that vow, Priestess? Torval gave me the victory—”

  “He did, lord,” she murmured.

  “Then how can he punish me?”

  “None of us knows the minds of the gods,” she said gravely. “But I believe that they are fair and practical and take many things into account, such as the need of the people in these troubled times for a strong Chief of Chiefs—”

  “That is what I was trying to tell Garn!” exclaimed Skylan, pleased. “My father should understand that.”

  “I am certain he will. Come,” Draya said, and she held out her hand to him. “We will speak to your father together.”

  Skylan drew back. The woman was already behaving like a wife!

  “I made the vow,” Skylan said gruffly. “I must make amends.”

  He limped off quickly, before she could insist on going with him. She made him feel uncomfortable, and he couldn’t explain why.

  Skylan walked over to where Norgaard sat on the deck, nursing his injured leg, massaging the scarred flesh.

  “Father,” Skylan began awkwardly.

  Norgaard grimaced and glanced up at him. “You do not need to say anything, Skylan. I understand. Garn made me see that you were doing Torval’s will.”

  Skylan glanced at his friend in astonishment.

  “Torval spoke to you,” Norgaard was continuing. “It was right for you to listen to the god. You will make a good Chief of Chiefs. Better than a cripple—”

  “Don’t say that, Father,” Skylan protested, ashamed. He could not look at Garn, who was sitting some distance away, watching. “I will rely on you for advice, counsel—”

  Norgaard smiled a brief, tight smile. “You fought well, my son. You made me proud.” He continued rubbing his leg. He closed his eyes, pretending to rest. The conversation was over.

  Skylan sat beside Garn. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do it for you,” Garn said. “I did it for your father, to spare him shame.”

  Skylan was silent a moment; then he said, “Now that my stepmother is dead and I am leaving, my father will be alone. He needs someone to look after him. Will you stay with him?”

  “Of course,” said Garn. “It will be my honor.”

  Skylan nodded. They made the rest of the short journey across the waves to Vindraholm in silence.

  The dragonship arrived back at Vindraholm to cheers from the Heudjun people, all of them eager to welcome their new Chief of Chiefs, eager to put this shameful incident behind them. Torgun and Heudjun warriors splashed into the water together to help guide the ship ashore.

  After the new Chief of Chiefs and the Kai Priestess and the others had disembarked, an uncomfortable silence fell on the crowd. Horg’s corpse was still aboard, and no one knew what to do with it.

  Horg would not be given the farewell ceremony due to a fallen hero. That was out of the question. He had distant relations in another clan, and he could have been buried on his family’s land, in their traditional burial mound, but his cousins had disowned him, refused to claim him.

  Several warriors, led by Sven, offered to carry the body off the dragonship. The Kai Priestess intervened.

  “Leave him where he lies,” Draya ordered. “The matter is out of our hands.”

  Draya stood on the beach and faced the dragon. She bowed low. The dragon’s carved eyes flashed a fiery red, and the people watched in awe to
see the dragonship sail away of its own accord. No crew manned it.

  The Venjekar, bearing Horg’s body wrapped in the bloody mantle of the god’s judgment, sailed due east, heading into the vast waters of the open sea.

  The people stood in silence, watching until the dragonship was lost to sight.

  The Venjekar returned.

  Horg was never seen again.

  BOOK

  3

  THE GHOST SHIP

  CHAPTER

  1

  The wedding was an important ritual among the Vindrasi, for it marked the end of one portion of a person’s life and the beginning of another. No matter what his age, a boy was not truly considered a man until he became head of his own household. A girl was not a woman until she was married. Thus the need for haste in marrying Skylan to the Kai Priestess. No matter how many battles he had fought and men he had slain, Skylan was not considered a man until he had taken a bride.

  Weddings were customarily planned well in advance. Preparations for the ceremonies and the feasting to follow would often take weeks, if not months. For Skylan and Draya’s wedding, such preparations had to be rushed, completed in less than a day and a night.

  The people of the other clans who had come to Vindraholm for the Vutmana stayed for the wedding. They cheerfully pitched in to assist the Heudjun in the work. The mood was festive. Torval had made his choice, and though some privately had doubts as to the god’s decision, none stated them openly. Everyone was determined to give the new young Chief of Chiefs a chance to prove himself.

  The sacred grove of oak trees in which weddings were held was made ready. Children scoured the grounds, picking up fallen branches and twigs and sweeping away dead leaves and grass. In the Chief’s Hall (a longhouse far larger than the hall in Luda), men assembled the long tables and benches that would be used for the feast. Other men went hunting, bringing back deer and elk, while older children were sent to round up the pigs that had been turned loose in the woods to graze. Women began baking numerous loaves of bread. They would rise early the next morning to roast the meat and prepare stews and fruits and vegetables.

  Skylan and Norgaard were given a longhouse in which to change their clothes and rest and eat. Norgaard did not stay there long. He went to the Chief’s Hall, where old friends were gathering. Skylan would have gone along, but his father insisted that he remain in the longhouse, rest, and see to his wounds. Norgaard sent Treia to tend to his son.

  Weaker than he liked to admit, Skylan agreed.

  Treia bathed the wounds, dressed them with poultices, and bandaged the cut on his leg. She was efficient in her ministrations, if not exactly gentle. She did not try to hide the fact that she found such work distasteful.

  “Now you should rest,” she told Skylan when she was finished. “You will need your strength.”

  “I want to see Aylaen,” Skylan said to her as she was about to leave. “Would you tell her to come to me?”

  “No, I will not,” Treia answered dourly. “Tomorrow is your wedding. You must eschew the company of women until then.”

  “Aylaen is my betrothed,” Skylan said, frowning. “She must be upset that I am marrying someone else. I need to explain things to her.”

  Treia gave him a strange look. “Aylaen wishes you joy, Skylan. We all do.”

  She left, again advising him to sleep, but Skylan had no intention of obeying. He had to find Aylaen. He was pulling on his boots, preparing to go in search of her, when she arrived, accompanied by Garn.

  Skylan expected her to be grief-stricken, her eyes red with weeping at the thought that he must marry another woman. He was considerably taken aback when she seized hold of his hands and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I am so proud, Skylan,” she said warmly. “And so happy for you! I think Draya is a lovely woman.”

  Skylan regarded her in frowning astonishment. “I thought you would be upset and disappointed. I must break our betrothal—”

  Aylaen immediately grew more somber.

  “It is Torval’s will, Skylan,” she said, subdued. “We must accept the decision of the gods.”

  Skylan turned to Garn. “My brother, I am sure you have much to do in preparation for tomorrow. There is no need for you to stay. I want to talk to Aylaen alone.”

  Skylan wanted to tell her about his plan that she become a Bone Priestess and move here to Vindraholm to study with the Kai. He could see her every day. Be with her every night . . .

  “I have work to do myself, Skylan,” Aylaen said. “I am helping the other women with the baking. You are hurt and you must be exhausted. I will let you rest.”

  “But I don’t want you to go, Aylaen,” Skylan said bluntly. “Garn, you may leave.”

  “No, Garn, wait.” Aylaen drew near Skylan and again pressed her lips against his cheek. “With all my heart, I wish you joy.” She smiled at him, then hurried out the door. “Get some sleep!” she called over her shoulder.

  Skylan seized hold of Garn. “You talk to her. Tell her she has to become a Bone Priestess.”

  “I don’t think—” Garn hesitated. “It’s just that Aylaen has never expressed any interest—”

  “What does that matter?” Skylan demanded brusquely. “Tell her this is the only way we can be together.”

  “You cannot be together, Skylan. You will be married,” Garn said, troubled.

  “I have thought it all over,” Skylan said. “We all know this marriage is only ceremonial in nature. Horg had concubines. All married men do—”

  “I do not think Aylaen would be a concubine, Skylan,” Garn said. “Even if she agreed, would you subject her to such dishonor?”

  “It would only be until my wife dies—”

  “I must go, Skylan,” Garn said abruptly. “Norgaard is sending me back to Luda to fetch the bride-gift and the sword of your fathers. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  Garn left. The longhouse was quiet. Skylan limped over to the sleeping platform and threw himself down on it. His wounds had not particularly bothered him, but once he lay down, they began to hurt. The salve Treia had used burned. He could not get comfortable.

  The cure is worse than the sickness, he thought sourly.

  He lay staring at the wooden timbers of the ceiling and thought about Aylaen and her reaction to him being married, a reaction he found puzzling. She was losing him to another woman, and yet she had wished him joy! He did not want Aylaen to be overcome with grief, of course, but he thought she should be a little miserable.

  He thought back to her shining eyes and her sisterly kiss on the cheek.

  “I know what she is doing!” Skylan said suddenly. “She is being strong for my sake. She fears that if she shows her sorrow, she will make me unhappy, and she does not want to spoil my triumph.”

  Pleased with this logic, Skylan quit thinking about Aylaen. He began to relive the day, his glorious victory over Horg. With the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears, he sank luxuriously into well-earned sleep.

  He slept the night through, so exhausted that he did not hear his father return.

  Skylan woke early the next morning, rousting Norgaard out of his bed. Norgaard groaned. He had been up late visiting with friends and relatives from other clans. The ale had flowed freely, with the result that Norgaard was bleary-eyed and complained a good deal about the brightness of the sun.

  Garn arrived soon after Skylan rose. Norgaard had sent Garn back to Luda to retrieve the bride-gift—a golden brooch formed in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail, adorned with two emerald eyes. Norgaard had won the valuable brooch in battle, and he had given it to Skylan’s mother. Now Skylan would give it to his wife.

  Garn also brought with him the ancient sword that had been in their family for generations. Norgaard had presented the sword to Skylan’s mother on the day of their marriage to be held in trust for their son. Skylan would in turn give the sword to his wife, to be held in trust for their son. The absurdity of that happening made Skylan chuckle.

&nb
sp; The Venjekar had sailed back to Vindraholm in triumph, accompanied by a flotilla of smaller boats. Every member of the Torgun Clan who could walk (and some who couldn’t, but had to be carried on litters) came to see Skylan, Chief of Chiefs, wed the Kai Priestess. This was a proud day among the Torgun; their clan had never been so honored since the days of their founder, Thorgunnd. The people came dressed in their finest, bringing food and gifts.

  The morning dawned clear and bright. The sun danced on the water, as though the Goddess Aylis was already looking forward to dancing at the wedding. The wedding day began with both bride and groom undergoing a ritual cleansing. Accompanied by his father and Garn and his best friends, Bjorn and Erdmun, Skylan entered the men’s bathing house. Draya would be performing the same cleansing ritual in the women’s bathing house, among her family and friends.

  The house contained tubs of heated water. They would bathe, then enter a room filled with hot rocks. The men poured dippers onto the rocks to create clouds of steam, in which they relaxed, allowing the perspiration to flow from their bodies, taking with it all impurities.

  As they sat in the steam, Norgaard imparted the wisdom fathers always shared with their sons on how best to live with a woman, ways to make her happy and keep her content. The young men added their own ribald comments and jests, causing much mirth and merriment. After the steaming, the men plunged into tubs of cold water to clear the pores, blowing and snorting and gasping at the shock.

  Skylan returned to his dwelling and dressed in his finest clothes, including a new tunic given to him by Norgaard. Skylan was touched to learn that his late stepmother had sewn it just days before her death. Garn knelt before his friend to buckle the ancient sword around Skylan’s waist. The sword was quite old, not fit for use in battle, but prized nonetheless. Skylan had sent the emerald brooch to his soon-to-be wife that morning, in care of Bjorn and Erdmun.