And as though to prove it, she slid her hand into his trousers, reaching down to fondle his privates.
She smelled of sweat and perfumed oil, and her smell, combined with the mead and ale he’d been drinking, made him nauseated. He broke free of her embrace and angrily rounded on her.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he told her. “A woman of your age behaving like a whore! I would as soon think of bedding my own grandmother!”
Draya’s face went livid. Her dark eyes against the pale skin were enormous and seemed to swallow him.
“I am your wife!” she said.
“In name only!” Skylan shrugged, dismissive. “All know our marriage is cere . . . cere . . . ceremonial.” It took a couple of tries for his mead-numbed lips to form the word, but he managed. He gestured. “Besides, I am pledged to another. Go to your bed and do not trouble me.”
“Another?” Draya flared with anger. “You are my husband. By law, you must lie with me!”
She was right. A husband was bound by law to consummate the marriage, as a wife was bound by law to submit to him. But this marriage wasn’t a real marriage. It was ceremonial. She was an old woman. He didn’t want to look at her. He certainly didn’t want to make love to her. He just wanted her to go away and leave him alone to dream of Aylaen.
“Law?” Skylan drew himself up proudly. “I am the law, lady. I am Chief of Chiefs. You will do as I command!”
“You stupid boy!” Draya slapped him across the face. The blow was hard, stinging, and Skylan tasted blood on his lip. Her voice shook. Her dark eyes burned with soul-consuming fire. “If it were not for me, you would not be Chief of anything!”
Skylan laughed. “Torval gave me the victory. I killed Horg.”
“No, you didn’t,” Draya cried. “I did! The wine Horg drank was poisoned. I poisoned him!”
Skylan stared at her in alcohol-fuddled bewilderment, unable to comprehend her words.
“The wine you both drank before the battle,” Draya continued feverishly, hardly knowing what she was saying. “I gave you the drinking horn—then I wiped it with a cloth. In the cloth was a vial containing a slow-acting poison. I poured it into his wine.”
“You lying bitch!” Skylan gasped. He could feel the hair rise on his arms in horror. His throat closed. He could scarcely breathe. “Stop lying to me. I killed Horg!”
Draya jeered derisively. “Horg was a man fighting a boy! He could have slain you three times over. He drew first blood, didn’t he? I let the fight continue because I knew the poison would burn his gut and foul his senses. He would eventually make a mistake, and then you would be able to kill him.”
Skylan remembered Horg grimacing and rubbing his gut. He remembered Horg’s faltering steps and how he had doubled over, clasping his stomach and groaning, and Skylan knew with sickening certainty that Draya was telling the truth.
The woman had murdered her husband. She had stolen Skylan’s victory. Worst of all, she had usurped Torval’s judgment!
Draya suddenly realized what she had been saying. She moaned and covered her mouth with her hand. Then she hurried toward him, her hands outstretched. “My love, my lord, I did it for you!”
“Get away from me!” Skylan was cold and shaking, overcome with horror.
Draya pleaded with him. “I did it for our people!”
“Get away from me!” Skylan repeated, and he backed into a corner. He lowered his head, unable to look at her.
“Horg was an evil man,” Draya said. “He was a coward and a bully. He offended the gods by giving the ogres the Vektan Torque. He cheated the day of the Vutmana. I saw him kick you. I knew that Torval wanted you to be Chief of Chiefs, but . . .”
Draya faltered, fell silent, stood gazing at Skylan with pleading eyes.
“But what?” Skylan yelled at her.
“I dared not take the chance that Torval might make a mistake.” Draya faltered. “This was too important. This meant the survival of our people and of the gods! We need a strong, brave, courageous Chief of Chiefs. I had to make certain of the outcome. Don’t you understand, my love?”
Skylan didn’t understand. All he knew was that she had murdered Horg.
“Torval will curse you!” Skylan licked dry lips. He was trembling all over. “He will curse me!”
“Horg was a sacrifice,” Draya said. “Torval understands. Vindrash understands. Don’t you, Vindrash?”
Skylan stared at her. She was talking to someone else, and there was no one in the room. She was Kai Priestess. Perhaps the gods were here now! Skylan had faced death many times in the shield-wall. He’d known fear then, but he’d never known fear like this. He sank to his knees.
“Horg had to be sacrificed for our people to survive. For our gods to survive. And so I put the poison in his wine. . . .”
Skylan’s glance went to the drinking horn he was still holding in his hand. Draya was going on about the survival of the people, the survival of the gods. All he knew was that he’d been drinking her ale. He crawled toward the slop bucket and slumped over it and vomited, spewing up ale, spitting it out of his mouth. He kept vomiting until his stomach was empty and he brought up nothing, and then he heaved some more.
He sank back against the wall, wiping his lips.
“I have to tell my father,” he said groggily. “I have to tell him what you did. . . .”
He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered toward the door, but he didn’t make it. He fell over a stool and landed flat on the floor. Kneeling beside him, Draya put her arms around his shoulders.
“You must not tell your father, Skylan,” she said softly. “You must not tell anyone! Everyone will think we plotted this together. You will be stripped of your honors. We would be executed as murderers.”
Skylan gave a moan and shook his head.
Draya grasped him tighter, whispering fiercely, “You are Torval’s choice for Chief, Skylan. I know it in my heart, and I will prove it. Say nothing to anyone, keep my secret, and we will sail to the sacred Dragon Isles to seek the gods’ forgiveness and their blessing.”
Skylan pictured his shame and humiliation. He could never again look his father in the face. Aylaen would loathe him. He would never be able to marry her. Though he might be able to prove he was innocent of having poisoned Horg, in the eyes of the people, Skylan Ivorson would be the warrior who had tried to cheat the god. His reputation would be destroyed. Men would refuse to follow him into the craphouse, much less let him lead them into battle.
“Vindrash knew what I did,” Draya said to him. “The Dragon Kahg knew what I did, for he is her servant. The Dragon Kahg honored you. He carried you in triumph back to Vindraholm. The dragon disposed of Horg’s body, so that no one would find out.”
Skylan looked at her uncertainly. “Vindrash knows you poisoned Horg?”
“Of course she did,” Draya said eagerly. “Vindrash is my goddess. I tell her everything.”
Skylan was still doubtful. There was something wrong with her words, but he couldn’t think what. His brain was muddled. Garn would know what to do. If there was ever a time Skylan needed his friend’s wise counsel, it was now. And this was the one time he could not seek it.
Skylan roughly shoved Draya away from him. “I will keep your secret,” he said. He placed his hand on the amulet, started to vow to Torval, and then let his hand fall. “Now get out of my sight.”
“We can still be husband and wife,” Draya said in pleading tones.
“I would sooner bed a daemon!” Skylan said harshly.
Draya gave a little whimper. She looked every bit her age and more. Her skin was sallow, cheeks sagging. Her eyes were sunken, her lips bloodless.
“I will keep your secret,” Skylan repeated, “but I will never sleep in your bed. And that will be my secret, one that you will keep.”
Two tears spilled out of Draya’s eyes, rolled down her face, and dropped unheeded onto her bare breasts.
“I want to give you a son,” Draya moaned. She p
ressed her hand against her belly. “I can give you a son. I know it!”
Skylan regarded her with loathing. “As if I would want a son with your tainted blood in him! Now bring me a blanket, lady, and then go to your bed.”
Draya rose shakily to her feet. She brought him blankets and bedding and arranged them on the floor. Skylan stood in a far corner and watched her. He had a horrible taste in his mouth, and he was parched with thirst, but his stomach recoiled at the thought of drinking or eating anything she had touched. After she made up his bed, Draya gave him a last pleading look. He averted his face and turned away. She went to her room and flung herself on the bridal bed. He could hear her weeping, great choking sobs. Skylan blew out the candles and lay down on the bedding and stared fearfully into the shadows.
Ghosts of murdered men did not rest quietly in their graves. They became walking corpses, known as draugrs, and they returned to haunt those who had been responsible for having cut short the thread of their wyrds. The Dragon Kahg had taken Horg’s body far away, but perhaps he had not taken it far enough. Perhaps Horg would come back to accuse his treacherous wife? Perhaps he would come back to haunt Skylan. . . .
And then the terrible thought occurred to Skylan that perhaps he had more to fear from the living than from the dead. He knew Draya’s guilty secret. He was a danger to her. She had killed one husband. She could easily kill another! How could he live with her, knowing that?
If he hadn’t broken his vow to Torval, he would be back in the feast hall, drinking with his friends, celebrating with Aylaen. His father, Norgaard, would be the one living here. He would be married to this murderess. Skylan groaned aloud.
“You have punished me for my oath-breaking, Torval,” he said. “I accept your punishment. I was wrong.”
Skylan clasped his hand around the amulet and prayed more fervently than he had ever prayed in his life.
“Now you must help me, Torval! You must rid me of my wife!”
CHAPTER
3
Draya rose early on the morning after her wedding. She longed to go to the Great Hall of the Gods, to prostrate herself at the feet of Vindrash, and cleanse her soul by confessing everything to the goddess. Draya could not, however. The reason she gave herself was that people would think it very strange for her to be leaving the joys of the marriage bed the day after the wedding night. No one would say anything, of course, but there would be whispers and pitying looks.
The true reason Draya was not prepared to face Vindrash: Draya had lied to Skylan last night when she assured him Vindrash knew of her crime. Draya hoped she had acted with the goddess’s knowledge and approval, but she didn’t know for certain. Vindrash had not spoken to her since the night the goddess had said she must go into hiding to escape her enemies.
Torval had cursed her. Of that, Draya was sadly certain. She had usurped his judgment, taken it upon herself. He was furious with her, and he had vented his fury by causing her handsome young husband to hate her.
She must make the journey to the Dragon Isles, to the Hall of Vektia, to beg Torval’s forgiveness. The gods would be there—if they were anywhere. Skylan would accompany her. It was traditional for a new Chief of Chiefs to travel to the Dragon Isles. Perhaps on that long sea voyage, alone together, they would be reconciled.
Draya splashed cold water on her face, trying to ease the burning of her eyes. She had been so happy yesterday. And she had spent her wedding night sobbing herself to sleep.
I brought it on myself, she realized miserably. I was wrong to lose my temper with him. I should have been patient, understanding. He is only eighteen. Of course he must think me old. I am one of the oldest women in the city! But in time, he would have come to see that age does not matter. In time, he would have come to love me.
She crept quietly into the living area, where Skylan lay asleep, tangled up in the blankets and the bedding. His hair was tousled and his face stern, as though even in sleep, he was still angry. She had heard him tossing and turning half the night before he settled down. She stood gazing on him and felt the hot tears sting her eyes again.
“I should never have told you the truth!” She spoke very softly. “I hoped you would understand, but I forgot how young you are. Youth sees everything either in the bright glare of the sun or hidden by impenetrable darkness. For the young, there is no twilight. You judged me harshly, as I deserve, but you cannot know the terrible burden of responsibility I bear!”
A part of her hoped he would hear her plaintive whisper and waken and smile at her and take her in his arms. Instead, he rolled onto his belly and pulled the fur blanket over his head. Draya sighed and went about her daily house hold tasks, moving silently so as not to waken him.
By midmorning, Draya was ready to leave the house. Her duties as Kai Priestess continued. She had arranged a Kai Moot, a meeting of the Bone Priestesses, some of whom had traveled a far distance to witness the Vutmana. This was a rare opportunity for the Priestesses from other clans to come together. They had much to discuss.
The Priestesses were upset over the failure of their prayers to Desiria, Goddess of Healing. Many had received other strange and ominous signs that all was not well in heaven. The worst of these were the destruction of the Torgun’s ancient statue of Vindrash and Treia’s report of her conversation with the Dragon Kahg that there had been a war in heaven and it had not gone well for the Gods of the Vindrasi.
Draya had to decide what to tell the Kai and what to conceal. She must tell them that Desiria was dead. Treia already knew that much from the Dragon Kahg, and she had spread the word. Treia seemed to relish spreading bad news. Draya had hoped that time spent working among her people would soften the woman. If anything, Treia was even more dour and angry than when she had first left Vindraholm.
Draya had never realized how deeply Treia resented her. Treia seemed to blame the Kai Priestess for the fact that her mother had essentially bartered her daughter to the gods. Draya had hoped to make amends by inviting Treia to perform the marriage ceremony. Strangely, the invitation seemed only to deepen Treia’s resentment.
Draya retired to the sleeping chamber to put on clean clothing and the embroidered surcoat that marked her high office. She was braiding her hair when she heard Skylan moving around the living area.
Her hands shook; she had to quit her task. She must face him. There was no helping that. Her courage failed her. She could not remain hiding in the bedroom forever, however. She hastily finished the braid, winding it around her head, and put on the surcoat. She bravely attempted a smile and walked into the living area. She saw, with a start, that Skylan was dressing as though for a journey. He had on his tunic and helm, his silver armbands, and chain mail. Skylan’s old sword (not the new one she had given him) bumped against his hip.
“Where are you going, lord?” Draya asked, startled.
Skylan continued to arm himself. Perhaps he was preparing to return to his own homeland! The Torgun were slated to leave today, and Skylan might well have decided to sail with them. Draya was panic-stricken. His sudden departure would look very, very bad.
She was about to press the issue, demand an answer, when he said abruptly, “I had a dream last night. Torval came to me. He ordered me to go to Hammerfall.”
Skylan looked at her directly now, and his blue eyes were ice cold. “I have to seek the god’s forgiveness.”
Draya flushed in shame. A dream sent by the god must be acted upon, of course, but what would people think? She was about to tell Skylan he could not go, he could not possibly leave her now, but then she checked her words. Might not his departure be best for both of them?
Hammerfall was one of the most sacred sites of the Vindrasi. When Torval had finally won his battle over the Dragon Ilyrion, he had been so exhausted that his blood-covered war hammer had slipped from his hand. It had fallen an immense distance through the heavens until it struck the ground. The hammer’s head gouged out a huge crater that was perfectly round with high walls and a smooth floor of bl
ack shining rock where nothing would grow. Warriors often traveled to Hammerfall to ask Torval’s blessing before going to war or to dedicate a new sword or battle axe. Those who had told lies or done something else dishonorable went to Hammerfall to seek the god’s forgiveness.
Hammerfall was located south of Vindraholm. The journey would take Skylan a fortnight, at least. Time spent alone, time to cool off, think things over. When the young man returned, he would feel better, and they could start over.
“I think that is an excellent idea, lord. Though, of course,” Draya added in a low voice, “you must keep your reason for going a secret.”
Skylan’s lip curled. “If anyone asks, madam, I will say that I am traveling to Hammerfall to thank the god for the very great favor he has bestowed on me by giving you for my wife.”
Draya flinched at his piercing sarcasm.
“I have a meeting with the Clan Chiefs this morning,” Skylan continued, gathering his things. “Then I must bid farewell to my father and my clansmen. I will depart immediately after that.”
Draya noticed Skylan was limping—his wound pained him. She knew better than to offer to help him. She could give him another kind of assistance, however.
“The journey is a long one. Too long for you to make on foot. If you go to the horse pen, lord, you will find another of my gifts to you: the black stallion with the white blaze. He is battle-trained and very fast. According to Sven, who bred him, he can run a hole in the wind. His name is Blade.”
Skylan stopped in his work. A horse was a valuable and treasured gift. He frowned, as though considering whether or not to accept it. He obviously did not want to be beholden to her.
“As Chief of Chiefs,” said Draya, seeing his dilemma, “it is right and proper that you have a fine mount.”
Skylan thought this over and nodded. “I thank you,” he said stiffly. “Your gift is . . . most generous.”
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