Bones of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  CHAPTER

  2

  Skylan fumed all the way to Owl Mother’s dwelling. He did not understand women. Aylaen adored him, of course, but she had always been contrary. She enjoyed making his life miserable, delighting in teasing and taunting him. That had been fine when they were children, but the time for teasing was past. She should be sweet and loving, overjoyed to become his wife. She did not seem to realize that he could have any woman he wanted.

  He could scarcely walk for the women who were hurling themselves at his feet. Every day, some father came to bargain with him to marry his daughter. Such a marriage would not last long. Once the Kai chose a new Priestess, the marriage would end in divorce. The former wife of a Chief of Chiefs would come away with a great many benefits, however, not the least of which might be a son. To be the Chief’s concubine was no small prize, either.

  Skylan had done Aylaen the courtesy of turning down these offers. Her refusal even to consider becoming a Bone Priestess angered him. She should have been glad for the chance. This would solve all their problems. Why was she being so stubborn?

  Skylan had even secretly tried to change the law. As Chief of Chiefs, he had the power to proclaim new laws. Why not fix this one? He’d gone to the Talgogroth to ask if this would be possible. The answer had been a firm and irrefutable no.

  “The marriage of the Kai Priestess and the Chief of Chiefs is more than a tradition, Skylan,” the Talgogroth had told him. “It is a marriage of two halves of a clan, a nation. It is the marriage of every man and every woman. It is the marriage of the worldly and the godly, the marriage of faith and logic, the marriage of the sword and of the shield. The people would rise up in rebellion at the very thought of ending this tradition!”

  Aylaen would have to be made to understand that this was serious. He would have to explain it to her. He would do so, the first chance he got. And he would tell her, too, that she should treat him with the proper respect. No more teasing. The two of them could hasten the wedding night. After all, as groom, he was the one who had the right to complain that his wife had not come to his bed a virgin, return her to her father, and seek damages for the insult.

  “If I am the one to take her virginity, who is there to complain?” Skylan muttered to himself. He remembered the feel of her, the warmth of her breasts, the fragrance of her hair. He throbbed painfully.

  He was lost in his lustful dreams, not paying attention, when the warning snarl of a wolf brought him back to the present with a jolt. He looked about, but could not see the wolf. He could hear its continuous low growl, however. Any moment it might jump on him, knock him down, and savage him, rip out his throat.

  The growling came nearer. He reached instinctively for his sword, but he had been hoping to be engaged in more pleasant activities with Aylaen this afternoon, and he had left the sword behind. Skylan drew his knife and braced himself.

  The growl became a gurgle of laughter. Wulfe leaped out of the underbrush and stood on the path, grinning at Skylan.

  “I scared you!” the boy said.

  Skylan did not lower the knife. “Where’s the beast?”

  “That was me!” said Wulfe.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Skylan.

  “Listen. I’ll show you.”

  Wulfe crouched on all fours and began to make a growling sound, low in his throat. His lips curled back in a snarl. His eyes narrowed, gleaming yellow in the dappled sunlight.

  “Stop it!” Skylan ordered uneasily. His skin crawled. “That’s not funny. And don’t do it again. People might mistake you for a real wolf and slit your throat.”

  “They could try,” said Wulfe with another laugh.

  Skylan shook his head. Though he thought the boy was half-crazy, Skylan liked him, perhaps because Wulfe was the one person who truly liked Skylan. Liked Skylan for his own sake, not because he was Chief of Chiefs.

  Wulfe didn’t want anything from Skylan. He didn’t draw him off into corners to urge him to make deals that would favor a particular clan or support a particular cause. Wulfe did not offer bribes to look another way while a boundary stone was shifted or ask Skylan to pardon a cousin’s uncle’s brother for stealing a goat. At first, Skylan had been flattered to know he wielded such power. But lately the innumerable demands and requests, the subtle hints and veiled threats just made him tired, gave him a headache.

  “What are you doing here?” Skylan asked.

  “I came to see Owl Mother.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Owl Mother.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Wulfe complacently. “The dryads told me about her. Now we’re good friends.”

  Skylan frowned. He didn’t believe Wulfe when he claimed to be able to speak to dryads. Skylan believed in dryads, of course. Like all the Vindrasi, he asked the guardian of the tree to forgive him before he cut down her tree, and he left offerings for her to ease her grief. But no self-respecting person claimed to be able to see dryads or converse with them.

  Skylan had too many other concerns to start up this argument again, and he let the matter drop.

  “I am told Owl Mother wants to see me.”

  Wulfe raised his eyebrows. “She does?”

  Skylan stopped to stare at the boy. “You mean she doesn’t?”

  Wulfe could tell Skylan was in a bad mood, and he answered warily, “Maybe.”

  “Garn said she wanted to see me.”

  “Garn hasn’t been around all day. She could have told him some other time, though.”

  Seeing Skylan scowl, Wulfe added hurriedly, “Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll go ask,” and he raced off, shouting, “Owl Mother!” before Skylan could catch him.

  Had Garn lied to him? It looked that way. Skylan was reflecting bitterly that he could no longer trust anyone, when he was confronted by Owl Mother, who sprang at him out of the brush.

  “There you are,” she snapped. “I’ve been waiting.”

  She whipped around, trotting along the winding path that led to her dwelling. She did not glance behind. Apparently she assumed Skylan would follow.

  “Did you tell Garn to tell me that you wanted to see me?” Skylan demanded.

  “Did I?” Owl Mother flung back over her shoulder.

  “Didn’t you?”

  Owl Mother stopped so fast that Skylan had to do some fancy footwork to avoid bumping into her. “Does it matter?”

  Skylan believed that it did matter, but he didn’t want to prolong his conversation with the strange old crone.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “We made a bargain, you and I,” said Owl Mother, poking his chest with her knotted finger. “The time I healed you, remember? You promised to do whatever I asked of you.”

  “I remember,” said Skylan impatiently. “But I am Chief of Chiefs now. I have many responsibilities. The Vindrasi are going to war—”

  “The Vindrasi are going to their doom.” Owl Mother snorted.

  They had reached the small clearing that surrounded her ramshackle house. Owl Mother pointed at a stool. “Sit down.”

  “What do you mean? The Vindrasi are going to their doom?” Skylan asked, still standing.

  “Wulfe, fetch my chair,” said Owl Mother.

  Wulfe dashed into the house. He came back carrying a chair that was almost as big as he was. He had it hoisted over his head, making nothing of the weight, though the chair had thick arms and legs and a back that was decorated with fanciful carvings of magical beasts. He set the chair down opposite the stool. A tree stump stood between them.

  Owl Mother sat down in her chair and made herself comfortable. “Wulfe, fetch the board and the bones.”

  Wulfe made another foray into the dwelling. He came back bearing a wooden board and a sack. He placed the board on the tree stump and dumped out the pieces. Skylan sucked in his breath. The hair prickled on his neck and arms. He stared at the board, feeling cold sweat trickling down his breast. He stared at the board and then at Owl Mother.

  “I thought we might play a game
of dragonbone,” said Owl Mother with a sly smile.

  “I don’t have time for nonsense,” said Skylan shakily. “I will chop wood for you, carry water, patch your roof or whatever chores need doing. I won’t play this game.”

  Owl Mother began to hum a jarring tune. She pointed at Skylan’s leg and a muscle in his thigh cramped, the pain so sharp and severe that his leg buckled. He gasped in agony and almost fell. He began to rub his thigh, trying to ease the cramp.

  “That was where the boar gored you, isn’t it?” Owl Mother chuckled, and stopped humming. “We made a bargain. I am fond of the game, and no one ever plays with me.”

  Skylan glared at her, but he realized he didn’t have much choice. He limped over to where the board rested on the stump of the tree and, grimacing, sat down on the stool. He continued to rub his leg, which burned as if he’d been stabbed with a red-hot knife.

  “I have first move,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” said Owl Mother. “It doesn’t matter to me. But then I’m not your dead wife.”

  Skylan paled, stared at her, startled. Then he flashed an angry glance at Wulfe, who flushed red and made a dash for the woods. Skylan felt called upon to explain.

  “I don’t know what lies the boy told you. The truth is I suffered from nightmares on board the ghost ship,” said Skylan.

  Owl Mother was busy sorting out the bones. “Wulfe says he saw the draugr.”

  “Wulfe says he talks to dryads.”

  Owl Mother arranged her bones in front of her. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Skylan cast her a scathing glance. “It was a nightmare,” he muttered.

  Through force of habit, he picked up five dragonbones and started to throw them.

  Owl Mother’s hand clamped over his.

  “Why do you do that?” she demanded.

  “Do what?” Skylan felt his skin burn and grow cold all at the same time.

  “Roll five bones. You’re supposed to roll only one.”

  Skylan wrenched his hand out of her grip. “It’s a variant I learned somewhere.”

  “From the draugr,” said Owl Mother. Her eyes pierced him.

  Skylan held the bones tightly in his hand, feeling the sharp corners prick his skin. He stared down at the board and did not answer.

  “Five bones,” Owl Mother said softly. “She always starts the game by rolling five bones?”

  Skylan did not answer.

  Owl Mother regarded him speculatively. “The dead walk this world for a reason. The draugr came to you, not seeking revenge for her death. She came to play a game of dragonbones. Didn’t you ever think to wonder why?”

  “It’s a dream!” Skylan said. “I didn’t wonder anything.”

  “You should. The draugr is trying to tell you something.”

  “Then why doesn’t she just come out and say it?” Skylan cried angrily.

  He flung the bones onto the ground and stood up, irresolute, thinking he would leave, only to sit back down. He ran his hand through his hair, wiped the sweat from his face, and spoke feverishly.

  “She walks the earth and picks up dragonbones and sets swords aflame and slams shut trapdoors. She plays the game well enough to beat me every night. Why does she keep tormenting me? Why doesn’t she tell me what she wants of me?”

  He pounded the question into the log with his clenched fist, emphasizing every word with a blow, striking the log so hard, he bloodied the heel of his hand.

  “Perhaps she cannot tell you. . . .”

  Owl Mother paused, then said thoughtfully, “Or perhaps she is forbidden to tell you.”

  Skylan dug a splinter out of his hand. He was sucking on it when a thought came to him. He looked sharply at Owl Mother. “If I figure out what Draya wants with me, will she leave me in peace?”

  Owl Mother shrugged. “Do I look like a draugr?” She added quickly, with a laugh, “Don’t answer that!”

  “But you know about draugrs,” said Skylan. He leaned close to her, his voice soft and persuasive. “You are old and you are wise, Owl Mother. What do you think she means?”

  “Save your honey words for young and pretty girls, Skylan Ivorson,” Owl Mother told him, grinning. “They won’t sweeten my vinegar.”

  She rose to her feet and shook down her skirts. “Now go away and leave me to my work. I’ve better things to do this afternoon than play games with you. Haul my chair back inside before you go, and now that I think of it, there is a leak in my roof that needs mending. . . .”

  By the time Skylan finished Owl Mother’s chores (she kept coming up with more), the sun was setting. The trees cast long shadows over the path that led back to the village. He walked with his head down, not paying attention to where he was going, his thoughts running on the draugr and the nightly games of dragonbones.

  “Skylan,” said Garn, coming to join him. “I want to apologize—”

  “I’ve come from Owl Mother’s,” said Skylan.

  “I know.” Garn flushed. “I’m sorry—”

  “What do you think of when you think of the number five?” Skylan asked abruptly.

  “Five?” Garn repeated, startled.

  “The number five,” Skylan repeated.

  “Every person has five fingers and five toes,” said Garn.

  Skylan considered this and shook his head. “The number has something to do with the dragonbone game.”

  Garn reflected. “There are five Dragons of Vektia.”

  “Five Dragons,” Skylan repeated. “Anything else?”

  “To do with the number five? No, not offhand.”

  “The Five Dragons. But if that’s true, what’s she trying to tell me about them?” Skylan wondered, frowning.

  “Who’s telling you? Owl Mother?” Garn asked.

  “Owl Mother? What about her?” Skylan glanced at his friend. “Oh, I see what you’re saying. No, not Owl Mother. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Skylan, there’s something I want to talk to you about. Something important.”

  “Yes, what?” Skylan asked. He was preoccupied, thinking about the Five Dragons.

  “I want you to leave me here when you go to war. I’ll remain with Norgaard and those who stay behind to guard the village—”

  Skylan stared at him, wondering if he’d heard him right. Then he broke into laughter.

  “You are joking with me.” Skylan clapped Garn on the shoulder. “A good jest. You fooled me completely. I actually thought you were serious. Now, I need to talk to you, and this is serious. I’m trying to convince Aylaen that she must become a Bone Priestess. She’s being stubborn, as always, and I was thinking you could talk to her—”

  “Skylan, I’m not joking,” said Garn quietly. “I don’t believe in this war. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” Skylan said in dangerous tones.

  “I think you do,” Garn said gravely. “You and I both know that story you told about the giants and the Dragon Isles was a lie. The people believe you because they are eager to go to war. I don’t, and I don’t want to be a part of it. Men will be needed to guard the village. I will serve you better if I remain here.”

  “Old men like my father serve me by staying behind to guard the village,” said Skylan angrily, ignoring the accusation that he’d lied. He could deny it, probably should deny it, but the truth was he had been lying and Garn knew it, so why go to all the bother? “Young, strong men stand by my side in the shield-wall! Or else they are cowards!”

  Garn blanched at this, but by the expression on his face, he did not mean to back down.

  “My friend,” Skylan said, softening, “you must go. Not for me. For yourself. People will say you are afraid.”

  “Let them say what they want,” Garn replied, but Skylan could see he was troubled.

  “And there is another consideration,” Skylan continued, seeing he’d found a chink in Garn’s armor. “I speak frankly because you are my brother and because I want to help you. You are an orphan, Ga
rn. You have lived for years on my father’s charity. Norgaard loves you like a son. I love you like a brother. But you have nothing—no silver, no property, no cattle. Someday you will want to marry, and no father would seriously consider allowing such a worthless bastard as yourself to wed his daughter.”

  Skylan tempered his words with a grin, but Garn had gone very pale.

  “Go on this voyage with me, Garn,” Skylan said. “Your fortune will be made! The ogres’ lands are rich, my friend! We will sail home with our ships stuffed with gold and silver and gems. You will be a wealthy man. Fathers will be parading their daughters naked before you. As for you not believing in this war, I don’t believe it. You know that we must recover the sacred Vektan Torque. We cannot leave it in the hands of the ogres. You agree that is true, right?”

  “Yes,” said Garn.

  Skylan had a sudden flash of insight. “There is some other reason you want to stay behind, something you’re not telling me.”

  Garn swallowed and licked his lips and said huskily, “I tried to keep this from you—”

  “It’s my father!” Skylan interrupted. “Now I understand. You want to stay behind to help Norgaard.”

  Garn stared at him dumbly, unable to speak.

  Skylan shook his head. “It won’t do, my friend. My father would be furious with both of us if he suspected. He is a proud man. You know that.”

  “I had not thought of it that way,” Garn admitted, and he sighed, “You are right.”

  “Therefore you will come,” said Skylan. “You will stand by my side in the shield-wall. And you will earn so many silver bracelets for brave deeds that you will not be able to lift your arm.”

  “I will come,” said Garn with a wan smile. “I will stand by your side in the shield-wall.”

  The two men embraced as brothers.

  “My friend,” said Skylan softly, “I want you to know something. I did try to save Draya’s life. I fought to save her! I couldn’t reach her in time. They hit me and kept hitting me. Her blood . . .” He found it hard to go on. Drawing a shaking breath, he said fervently, “If I could have saved her by giving up my life, I would have done so, Garn. I swear to Torval!”