“Yet you are here, Draya,” said Aylaen, startled and confused. “You have an honored place among the gods.”
“Look more closely, Daughter,” said Draya.
Aylaen looked into Draya’s eyes and saw not years, but eons. She saw the stars and the sun and the moon wheeling in the heavens. She saw the endless cycle of the tides. She saw the passing of the seasons.
“Vindrash!” Aylaen breathed, awed.
“My beloved servant, Draya, sacrificed herself that I might find refuge in her body. Thus, in this disguise, I hide from my enemies.”
“I don’t understand, Blessed Vindrash.” Aylaen blushed in confusion. “Was Draya a murderer?”
“Draya repented of her crime and she was forgiven. Her soul resides with Freilis. She is at peace.”
“And Skylan? Was he involved?”
“Skylan made mistakes. Whether or not we forgive him remains to be seen,” said Vindrash.
“I will never forgive him,” said Aylaen harshly.
Vindrash smiled gently. “In time you might forgive him. In time you might forgive yourself. But we did not bring you here to discuss that. Look around.”
Aylaen did as she was told. The other men and women seated at the table were grim and downcast and barely glanced at her, except one, who raised a mug of mulled wine in a jovial, mocking salute.
Two chairs at the table were empty. A place had been set for someone, as though the guest was expected to arrive any moment. The other chair was wreathed with flowers. A mug lay on its side, the wine spilled.
Aylaen shivered. Her gown was sodden, her hair wet with melted snow. Her teeth chattered.
She knew where she was. She was in the presence of the gods of the Vindrasi. Since she was a little girl, the gods had peopled her imagination, coming to comfort her when her father died, giving her courage when her stepfather beat her, befriending her when she was lonely.
“Torval,” said Aylaen, naming the God of War. “Vindrash,” she said, naming the dragon goddess. She looked around the table at the other gods, named them all.
Skoval, son of Torval and Vindrash, the God of Night. He was a secretive, bitter, dark-avised god, who ruled over dreams. Skoval’s love for Aylis, the Goddess of the Sun, had turned to hatred when she spurned him, and now he spent eternity chasing her. Skoval smiled at Aylaen, not with his lips, but with his eyes, as though the two shared a secret. Skoval had rebelled against his parents and been banished to darkness. Aylaen had always disliked him, but now she understood him. She felt he understood her.
Aylis of the Sun. Her fiery gaze was fixed on the two empty chairs, one of which belonged to her daughter, Desiria, who had been killed in battle with the Gods of Raj. The other empty chair belonged to another god. Aylaen wondered who was missing.
Hevis was here. God of Fire and Power, deceit and treachery, he was the son of Volindril, Goddess of Spring and Rebirth, and the Five Vektia dragons. His flames could either warm man or burn flesh from bone. Hevis was thin and dark, with sleek hair. He looked very much like Skoval, for the two were brothers. Hevis’s fire lit Skoval’s darkness. Neither one was to be trusted.
Akaria, daughter of Aylis, was goddess of the sea, and she was beautiful as calm water at sunset and lethal as the undertow that sucked men to their deaths. Beside her was Svanses, Goddess of the Wind and Winter’s Cold, daughter of Sund and Volindril, wild and unpredictable. Whenever Akaria and Svanses did battle, waves rose and ships sank, rivers flooded and men drowned.
The two were rivals and generally despised each other, but now they sat side by side. Svanses was also the goddess of revenge. Akaria, furious over her twin sister’s death, had allied herself with her foe.
Volindril, Goddess of Spring, had once been beautiful, with golden hair and green eyes, but now she was faded, pale and sad and frightened, cloaked in sorrow, grieving.
The god who raised his mug to Aylaen was Joabis, God of the Feast, pleasure, wine, and practical jokes. Joabis had been invited to join Torval when the god took over the world, for Torval was fond of feasting and merriment. Joabis was fat and jolly and no one took him seriously. Everyone thought him harmless, though those who had imbibed too much ale in the night often cursed him in the morning.
Two gods, brother and sister to Torval, sat at the end of the table. Gogroth, who was god of the World Tree, and Freilis, Goddess of the Talley, ruler of the Nethervarld, the realm of the dead. Gogroth had planted the World Tree at Torval’s command. The tree’s branches extended into heaven. The tree’s roots reached deep in the Nethervarld. Torval’s vast hall was made from the wood of the World Tree. The Norns, the three sisters, sat beneath the World Tree, spinning the wyrds of men.
Freilis, clad in dark armor and carrying the Sword of Retribution, ruled over the dead. She stalked the battlefield, taking the Talley, sending the souls of the heroic dead warriors to join Torval in his hall, there to feast with their womenfolk throughout eternity and, if need arose, join Torval in heavenly battle. Freilis took to her realm the souls of children, men and women who had died of illness or old age, and the souls of those who died dishonored. The latter were chained to rocks, to be tormented by her daemons that embodied their crimes.
Then Aylaen knew who was missing: Sund, the God of Stone, foresight, and history, thought and contemplation. A friend of Torval, Sund had been invited to help govern creation because of his ability to see through the tangled wyrds into the myriad futures of gods and men. If Sund was gone, the gods were blind.
As blind as man.
“Where is he?” Aylaen asked in sudden fearfulness.
“Sund will be here,” said Torval firmly.
Vindrash said nothing to contradict him, but her eyes flickered. Her face was pale.
Aylaen sensed her fear, and her own soul shrank in terror.
“Why did you take Garn from me?” she cried out. “Why did you send winter’s cold to ruin my springtime?”
“We did not,” said Vindrash.
Aylaen heard the wind howling outside the Hall like some awful beast, smelling fresh blood, trying to batter its way inside. She felt again the bite of cold, and she looked at those seated around the table, and there was the goddess of the wind and the goddess of the snow and the god of night. All wore armor that was battered and dented. All carried swords. All except the god of the feast, who chuckled drunkenly and quaffed his wine.
Aylaen stared at the gods in horrified realization.
“Why are you here? Outside the storm rages and the dark night reigns. What is happening?”
“Simple,” said Joabis, pouring himself another drink. “We are getting our godly asses kicked.”
Torval swore at the god in anger. “At least some of us fought our foes—”
“And two of you are dead,” said Joabis snidely.
“Sund is not dead!” Torval roared, louder than the wind. “He will be here.”
Taking off his helm, Torval flung it on the floor. His iron gray hair fell about his face. He looked very old and very tired. “Sund will be here.”
Vindrash came to her husband and rested her head upon his shoulder. He grasped her hand and held it fast, pressing it against his wrinkled cheek. The other gods looked down at the table or into their mugs, anywhere except at Torval. All except Joabis, who poured wine into a mug.
She recoiled from him in disgust, and he smiled and drank the wine himself.
“If you ask me, my dear,” Joabis said in a confidential whisper, his breath stinking of wine, “the old man’s biggest fear is that Sund is not dead.”
From outside the Hall came the sounds of blaring trumpets and drums beating and the clash of steel. Torval shoved himself wearily to his feet. The other gods drew their weapons, lifted their shields.
Vindrash flung open the door. The fierce wind blew the snow inside. The goddess turned to Aylaen and pointed out into the night.
“You must leave now,” said Vindrash.
Aylaen shrank from the darkness and the cold and the sounds of
battle. “I want to stay here, where it is safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” said Vindrash.
The wind buffeted Aylaen. She shivered. “But I have no cloak. I did not know winter was coming!”
“Yet winter always comes,” said Vindrash. “If you were not prepared, that is not our fault.”
“It is your fault!” Aylaen cried angrily, forgetting herself. “I loved Garn and you took him from me!”
“Thus the bard sings, ‘The thread is twisted and spun upon the wheel. Then I snip it and he dies.’ What is the song about?” Vindrash asked her.
“Death,” said Aylaen bitterly.
“Birth,” said Vindrash. “Creation. Remember that.”
Aylaen stared at her. She stared around at the other gods. They stared back, impassive, unmoved.
“I don’t understand.”
Vindrash dragged Aylaen to the door. “You do not belong here. You must leave.”
Aylaen clung to her. “When I was little, you came to me and held me and gave me comfort. Why won’t you do that now?”
“Because I have no comfort to give,” said Vindrash. “What I do have to give you is that song. Remember it, if you remember nothing else.”
Vindrash seized hold of Aylaen and flung her out into the snow and the night.
Aylaen awoke, shivering with the cold. She felt a qualm of terror, thinking she had fallen into a snowbank and was going to freeze to death, only to find that she had done nothing more than kick off her blanket.
Still shivering, she wondered how long she had been asleep. The sun still shone, gleaming through the chinks in the planks of the ship’s hull. By the way the shadows fell, it must be late afternoon.
Treia was seated, straight-backed, on a box near the door, her arms crossed over her chest, her feet flat on the floor.
Aylaen did not want to talk to her. Moving stealthily, she took hold of a corner of the blanket and slowly drew it up over her. She shifted position, as quietly as she could, but apparently not quietly enough.
Treia said sharply, “Aylaen! Are you awake?”
Aylaen kept silent.
“I know you are,” said Treia sharply.
Aylaen sighed and rolled over. “I had the most horrible dream.”
Treia snorted. “You and your dreams.”
Aylaen wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. It seemed very real. Vindrash came to me. The goddess spoke to me—”
“The goddess is always speaking to you!” said Treia angrily. “Why not me? I am the Bone Priestess. I spent my life on my knees, praying for the goddess to talk to me! Never once! But she speaks to you, and what did you ever do? Pretend to want to become a priestess so you could be with your lover!”
Hurt and astonished by her sister’s sudden rage, Aylaen had no idea what to say. Fortunately she was saved from responding by the sound of the key in the lock.
“Raegar?” Treia called eagerly, and she forgot Aylaen and sprang to the door.
Raegar did not enter. He remained in the doorway. The two whispered together for a moment, then Treia left with him, shutting the door behind her.
Aylaen sat staring into the darkness, thinking of the dream, hearing her sister’s words and the sad strains of a song.
“The thread is twisted and spun upon the wheel . . .”
CHAPTER
4
* * *
BOOK ONE
Upon his return to the ship, Tribune Zahakis reported to the Legate that the Venjekar had been repaired and could once more take to the open seas. The makeshift rudder was crude, but would serve the purpose.
“The problem, my lord, is that we do not have men to sail her,” said Zahakis. “My soldiers know nothing of sailing and would be far more likely to send the ship to the bottom of the ocean than they would be to row it safely to Sinaria. Not to mention the fact that it will take every single man I have to guard the prisoners. I never saw such a barbarous lot. They are savage as wild beasts. I am beginning to think the stories I have heard about these Vindrasi are true.”
“What stories are those?” Acronis asked, interested.
“They live only to fight. Their bloodthirsty warrior god will not take them into the afterlife unless they die in battle. One of the barbarians attacked his guard out of sheer cussedness, using his chains as a weapon.” Zahakis chuckled and shook his head. “And you want to train them for the Para Dix!”
“Which man was that?” asked Acronis.
“His name is Skylan Ivorson. He used to be their chief, apparently, but he broke some law and is now an outcast and disgraced. None of the others will have anything to do with him.”
Acronis and Zahakis stood on the deck of the trireme. Across the bay, the Venjekar floated in the shallow water. Zahakis had ordered his men to haul her into the waves in order to test the rudder and make certain it worked. The experiment had been successful. The soldiers had reloaded the stores they had removed from the Venjekar and dragged the prisoners back on board.
Zahakis had been going to shut the men up in the hold, but Raegar had announced that he had been ordered to bring the two women back to the ship, and he was going to house them in the hold. Zahakis left the Vindrasi warriors, chained together, sitting on the deck, with four archers standing with arrows nocked and ten marines guarding them. After the altercation with the barbarian Ivorson, Zahakis would have liked to use the full complement of twenty marines attached to the Light of the Sea to guard these dangerous men, but his soldiers had to eat and sleep sometime.
“Speaking of the Para Dix,” said Acronis. “I know you are not a fan of the game—”
“It makes war a game and that demeans the true soldier. People come to believe battle is nothing more than grand and glorious sport.”
“Would you have the contestants fight to draw blood, Zahakis? That would get very costly. I would soon run out of champions.”
“Not such a bad thing, my lord,” Zahakis said.
“Well, well, we will not quarrel. I suppose in some respects you are right. I would not participate in these contests myself, but Chloe takes such pleasure in the contests.”
Zahakis smiled. “I think your daughter knows more about the game than either of us, my lord.”
“She does indeed,” said Acronis proudly, adding, “Point out this Ivorson to me when we go on board.”
Zahakis promised he would, and the two returned to their original discussion. “I don’t suppose you can spare sailors from this ship to handle the barbarians?”
“Not a chance.”
Zahakis shook his head. “Then as I see it, Legate, we have no choice but to tow the ship to Sinaria. Either that or leave it here until we can return with enough men to sail it back.”
The two stood gazing out at the Venjekar, rocking gently at anchor.
“She is a lovely thing,” said Acronis, admiring the sleek, clean lines and dragonhead prow. “Say what you like about these barbarians, they can build ships. Picture her, Zahakis, on my estate. Fresh paint for the dragon. His eyes gleaming red. His scales bright blue and green. Chloe will be enchanted. We must take it back with us.”
Acronis leaned on the rail, keeping the Venjekar always in his sights. “According to Raegar, we do not need to worry about manning the ship. He plans to summon a real, live dragon. The same dragon we saw fighting the giants. If you remember, we wondered where it had come from and where it went.”
“These are known as the Dragon Isles, my lord,” said Zahakis dryly.
“According to Raegar, the name comes from the Temple of the Dragon Goddess, which is located here. Dragons don’t live here. They don’t live in this world at all, apparently.”
“So what does the dragon have to do with sailing the ship, my lord?” Zahakis asked, dubious.
“From what Raegar tells me, the dragons have made a pact with the Vindrasi. A dragon such as the one that belongs to this ship consigns his spirit to a ship in the form of a spiritbone and carries the dragon
ship over the seas. In turn, the Vindrasi give all the jewels they capture in their raids to the dragons. Don’t ask me what the dragons do with jewels, Commander,” Acronis said. “I asked Raegar and succeeded only in insulting Aelon, though I am not quite sure how.”
Zahakis was skeptical. “Dragons have wings. At least, the one we saw had wings. Why don’t they simply fly wherever they want to go?”
“For the same reason we ride horses, Zahakis—to spare our feet. Dragons are large beasts, and though they are strong, they grow tired when they are in flight and must often stop to rest. The ship, powered by the dragon’s spirit, carries the dragon’s bone with it. The dragon can spring to life if he is needed and remain in spirit form when he is not.”
Zahakis wrinkled his brow. “And you believe this faery tale, my lord?”
“Oh, I must, Commander,” said Acronis with mock solemnity. “Aelon commands me.”
Zahakis grinned. He was about to make some comment when he saw Raegar emerge from down below and come up on deck. Zahakis gave a meaningful cough. Acronis glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice.
“Still,” said Acronis in thoughtful tones, “you and I both saw the dragon fighting the giants. And I have read accounts written by people who have survived Vindrasi raids. Many relate how dragons fought alongside the warriors. Some claim that the ship itself changed into a dragon. Others claim that the dragon materialized out of thin air.”
Acronis leaned his arms on the railing and gazed with admiration at the dragonship. “I would like to see for myself, Zahakis.”
“You’re not serious, Legate.”
“I assure you I am,” said Acronis. “I am a man of science, Tribune. We saw a dragon fighting the giants. If the dragon will come when this woman whistles or prays or whatever she does, then I must take advantage of this opportunity.”
Secret of the Dragon Page 4
