Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Skylan thought this over. He had lots of time to think, sitting at the tiller, and he came to the sobering realization that his world, a world he had once proudly thought he ruled, was not a world at all. It was only a small piece of a much larger world, a measly morsel of bread torn from an enormous loaf.

  He listened to Zahakis describe the city of Sinaria, capital of the land of Oran. Zahakis told of its wonders, the vast numbers of people who lived there (more people in one city than in all of Vindraholm). Zahakis told him more about the Legate, a man who was so wealthy he had commissioned the construction of not one, but two triremes. He paid for the men to sail his ships and the soldiers who defended them.

  “The Legate was a territorial governor for many years. He and his legion defended the north eastern provinces of Oran from the raids of your people and the ogres and Cyclops. Ostensibly the legion was under the command of the Emperor, but being so far away from the capital, the Legate was forced to take control of the legion himself, and, gradually, the men came to look upon him as their commander.

  “This was fine while we were far from Sinaria, but then the Emperor, under the influence of the Priest-General, became nervous that the Legate was gaining too much power. He ordered the Legate to return home, where he could keep an eye on him.”

  Skylan understood. Horg had feared the Torgun’s rising influence, one reason he had sold them out to the ogres. Men were men, it seemed, whether they had swarthy brown skin or fair skin or hairy skin (like the ogres).

  As he steered the Venjekar through the vast ocean, with only sea below and sky above, Skylan saw his wyrd unwinding before him, running straight and true across the sun-spangled water toward the blue haze of a far horizon. He wanted to sail like this forever, leaving everything behind: guilt, murder, lies, regrets, sorrow.

  Sail on with the wind in his face . . . and stinging saltwater in his wounds. His skin, rubbed raw by the manacles, burned from the seawater that splashed up onto the deck.

  Skylan winced and grimaced and came back to bitter reality with a thud. He wasn’t leaving anything behind. His wyrd bound him to the past, a chain that could never be broken.

  All he could do now was to try to set right what had gone so disastrously wrong.

  Aylaen watched the sunlight creep through small chinks in the wood planking of the hold, dappling parts of the deck, leaving much of the hold in shadow.

  Most of the time, the two women were alone. Zahakis would check on them once a day, always treating them with courtesy and asking if they needed anything. He had given Treia and Aylaen permission to come up on deck to take the air, but only Treia took advantage of the offer. Aylaen didn’t like the way the soldiers stared at her.

  Sometimes Wulfe came down to visit. The boy was given free run of the ship. He still didn’t like Treia, but he was bored and being around her was slightly better than being around the soldiers. Aylaen listened to his stories of being raised by his father, the wolf, and his mother, the daughter of the faery queen, and she marveled that he could come up with such amazing lies. But the boy’s visits were an irritant to Treia. She complained to Aylaen and finally Aylaen told Wulfe it would be better if he didn’t come.

  After that, the two women wrapped themselves in the shadows and hugged the darkness close.

  Aylaen watched the sunlight creep across the floor, marking the passing of time. Treia sat curled up in a far corner, her arms around her bent legs, her chin resting on her knees, her gaze fixed and staring.

  She had spent the last two days turning the hold and everything in it upside down, searching for the spiritbone of the Dragon Kahg. Treia hoped that if she found the bone, Raegar would no longer be angry with her. She had constantly scolded and nagged Aylaen into helping her.

  But the spiritbone, it seemed, was gone for good this time. Treia had finally given up looking. She gave up doing anything except staring into the shadows.

  Seeing her sister absorbed in her own misery, Aylaen stealthily removed the knife from her boot.

  She had not found the time yet to use it. Treia was always watching her. True, there were the nights when Treia was asleep and Aylaen, who spent most days sleeping, lay awake, tossing and turning. But it seemed to Aylaen that every time she reached for the knife, Treia would moan in her sleep or cry out or shift restlessly. Aylaen, terrified her sister would catch her, would roll over and lay still.

  Now she held the knife in her hand, watching a sliver of sunlight play upon the blade. She turned the knife; the light flashed and faded, flashed and faded.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  Treia’s voice seemed to explode around Aylaen like a lightning strike. Her heart lurched, her hand shook. She dropped the knife and made a reflexive grab for it and sliced open the palm of her hand.

  “Look what you made me do!” Aylaen cried accusingly.

  Treia snatched the knife away and flung it across the deck. She turned Aylaen’s palm to the light to look at the cut.

  “This is deep. It will leave a scar,” said Treia, her voice trembling. “You are a fool! A stupid little fool!”

  She was truly upset. Aylaen regarded her sister in wonder. She had never thought Treia cared much about her.

  “Put pressure on it, like this,” Treia ordered. “I’ll fetch the salve and some bandages.”

  Aylaen pressed her left hand over the cut. Blood welled up around her fingers. Tears welled up in her eyes. She felt like a fool, sniveling over a cut on her hand when she had been about to drive the knife into her belly.

  Treia came hurrying back, stopping to pick up the knife on the way. She cleaned the wound and rubbed in the salve and then bound Aylaen’s hand tightly with a strip of linen.

  “What were you going to do? Kill yourself?” Treia asked.

  “I want to be with Garn,” Aylaen said, keeping her head lowered, not looking at her sister.

  Treia snorted. “If you believe in such things, Garn has gone to the Hall of Heroes. Do you think he would welcome you there? He would turn his back on you in shame. Torval would pick you up by the scruff of your neck and throw you down to Freilis, who would give you to her daemons for their sport.”

  “What about the old songs that tell about wives who were so stricken with grief that they threw themselves into the fire of their husband’s funeral boats? According to the songs, Torval honored their sacrifice.”

  “And who wrote such songs?” Treia asked scornfully. “Men wrote them. They would have us think we could not live without them.”

  “I can’t live without him,” Aylaen said.

  “That is because you are weak,” said Treia.

  “When you thought Raegar was dead, how did you feel?”

  “I didn’t try to kill myself,” said Treia.

  She wrapped the bandage so tightly that Aylaen gave a little gasp. “You need to loosen it. I can’t feel my fingers.”

  Treia finished the wrapping and sliced off the end of the cloth with the knife. Blotches of blood began to seep through the bandage. The wound ached and throbbed.

  Aylaen sighed. “Garn would be ashamed of me, wouldn’t he, Treia? He would turn his back on me.”

  “He would,” said Treia.

  “Thank you for helping me.” Aylaen swallowed, then said, “Will you give me the knife back?”

  Treia cast her a suspicious glance.

  “I’m not going to kill myself,” Aylaen said hurriedly. “To be honest, I don’t think I could have gone through with it anyway. But we are the only two women on a ship filled with men and it’s a long voyage and we should have some way to defend ourselves. . . .”

  Treia silently handed over the knife. Aylaen tucked it into her boot, then, impulsively, she put her arms around her sister and hugged her close.

  “I love you, Treia! I’m so glad to know you love me!”

  Treia stiffened in Aylaen’s grasp. She gave her sister an awkward pat on her shoulder.

  “I’ll change the bandage and put more salve on the w
ound tonight. If that man, Zahakis, asks what happened, make up some story. Don’t say anything about having a knife.”

  “I’ll tell them I fell down the ladder,” said Aylaen. Treia had been so kind, Aylaen wanted to do something to please her. “Would you like to look for the spiritbone again?”

  Treia gave a tight and bitter smile. “Useless. A waste of time.”

  “You think the Dragon Kahg is gone for good?”

  “I think the dragon is dead,” said Treia.

  CHAPTER

  9

  * * *

  BOOK ONE

  The Venjekar and the Light of the Sea had been at sea seven days, making good time, for they did not have to use the rowers. Zahakis told Skylan that in this part of the ocean, the wind blew steadily from the north, driving the ships in a southerly direction. Skylan was starting to think glumly that Zahakis had either forgotten about the ritual combat or he had figured out that it was all a ploy. Sigurd was angry and accused Skylan of being a coward, of trying to weasel out of the contest.

  Then one night, trouble broke out on the Venjekar. For once, it was not started by the prisoners. The soldiers were playing their usual gambling game with the stones, when one accused the other of cheating. Men took sides. Fists flew. The next day there were split knuckles, swollen lips, and black eyes. Zahakis was livid with fury.

  That morning, he scribbled something on a scroll of papyrus, wrapped it in a sack, and weighted it with a rock. Bringing the Venjekar within hailing distance of the Light of the Sea, Zahakis flung the weighted sack into the air. It landed on the deck of the galley. Acronis’s scribe retrieved it and took it to the Legate. An answer came back.

  Zahakis told Skylan that if the weather was fine, they would hold the Vutmana tomorrow.

  All Skylan could see as far as he looked was the vast emptiness of the ocean. “Are we that close to land?” he asked.

  “We are not close to land at all,” said Zahakis.

  “Then how can we fight the Vutmana?”

  “On board this ship.”

  Skylan didn’t know what to say. He had never considered this possibility.

  “But . . . we can’t fight on board a ship,” he said, floundering. “It’s not . . . proper. The gods wouldn’t like it.”

  “Then I guess you won’t fight at all,” said Zahakis, shrugging.

  Skylan sat at the tiller. All his careful planning, gone overboard.

  “Very well,” he said glumly. “We will fight the Vutmana on board the ship.”

  “You should be honored,” Zahakis said, grinning, as though he could see inside Skylan’s head, know what he was thinking. “The Legate himself will be coming over to see you fight as well as your kinsman Raegar.”

  “That whoreson is no kin of mine,” Skylan said.

  Zahakis chuckled. “I can’t say I would claim him either. He’s coming on board this afternoon to make preparations for the Vut—whatever you call it.”

  “Set me free,” Skylan said, “and I will welcome him.”

  Zahakis laughed, but he did not take him up on the offer.

  Skylan sighed. So much for his plans. He had assumed that the fight would be held on land. When the war galley made landfall, the Legate sent the rowers and soldiers ashore. They made up hunting parties, hauled water, and did other chores. They lit fires, cooked hot food, made themselves comfortable for the night. Skylan had figured that once he and Sigurd had their weapons, they would first kill Zahakis. The loss of a commander always threw even the best-trained forces into confusion. Skylan would set his fellow warriors free. They would take control of the Venjekar and sail away. By the time the Legate had managed to collect two hundred crew members and order them back on board and set them to work, the Venjekar would be well on her way home.

  That had been the plan. A good plan, Skylan thought as he sadly bid it farewell. He spent the rest of the day thinking and revising.

  For his new plan to succeed, Skylan needed the key that unlocked the prisoners’ manacles. Zahakis carried the key with him always—wearing it on his thumb like a ring. Skylan pondered long and hard on how he might acquire it. Aylaen and Treia could not be of help, for Zahakis had ordered them to remain in the hold. Skylan and his friends were chained hand and foot. That left Wulfe.

  The boy had the run of the ship. The soldiers were starting to like him, had made a sort of pet of him. He would run about the deck on all fours and they would roar with laughter and give him food. They tried to give him coins, but he was terrified of the money, which was made of metal. The soldiers found that even more hilarious.

  Wulfe could get close to Zahakis. The boy could move silently and stealthily as a stalking cat. The only problem was the boy’s fear of anything made of iron.

  That afternoon, when Zahakis went down into the hold to check on the women, Skylan motioned for Wulfe. The boy crouched eagerly beside Skylan.

  “Did you talk to your oceanaids today?” Skylan asked.

  “Of course,” said Wulfe.

  “They didn’t happen to mention how close we are to land, did they?” Skylan said.

  “I can ask. Do you want me to?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Wulfe dashed off and was soon hanging over the rail, yelling at the waves. The soldiers watched him and chuckled. Skylan felt more than a little foolish as he waited to hear what Wulfe and his fae friends had to say.

  “Two days,” Wulfe announced on his return. “So long as the wind doesn’t shift direction. And they don’t think it will.”

  Two days. They could sail to land in two days. Skylan didn’t know whether he believed Wulfe or he simply wanted to believe. Either way, he decided, it didn’t matter. This was the only opportunity for escape they were likely to have. They would have to take it and trust to the gods.

  He told Wulfe what he wanted him to do.

  Wulfe shook his head violently and started to make a dash for it.

  “Come back here,” Skylan said sharply.

  Wulfe came back, dragging his feet.

  “You want to get away from these soldiers, don’t you?” Skylan said softly, keeping an eye out for Zahakis.

  Wulfe nodded slowly, still suspicious.

  “You want to see Raegar dead, don’t you?”

  Wulfe nodded again, this time emphatically.

  “Then you have to get that key for me,” said Skylan. “You’re the only one who can do it.”

  “But it’s made of iron. It will burn me,” said Wulfe plaintively.

  Skylan might not have believed this, but he had seen Wulfe’s fingers the one time he’d forced the boy to clean his sword. His fingers looked like Wulfe had put his hand on a red-hot kettle.

  Wulfe’s brow puckered. “Why do you need this key anyway?”

  “Because it unlocks the manacles,” said Skylan. “You’ve seen a key work.”

  Wulfe shook his head. “The druids never used locks or keys.”

  After he thought about it, Skylan was not surprised. From what he had seen of their village, the druids had nothing of value to lock up.

  Skylan pointed to the leg irons. “See the metal box that looks like a barrel? You put the key in there. The key touches a spring. The spring releases and the manacles pop open. I’ll need to keep the key for a long time, so Zahakis can’t wonder where it has gone or start looking for it.”

  Wulfe grinned. “You want me to steal an iron key that I can’t touch off the Ugly’s thumb so he doesn’t notice it’s missing.”

  Skylan gave a frustrated sigh. The boy was right. It seemed impossible.

  “Wulfe,” he asked abruptly, “can you talk to Aylaen or Treia?”

  “I won’t talk to Treia. Ever,” said Wulfe emphatically.

  “Well, then, can you talk to Aylaen? Have you talked to her?”

  “Yes,” said Wulfe. “I’ve been telling her stories about my mother and father. They cheer her up. Why?”

  Skylan glanced around to make certain no one was near, then he said softly, “
I was just wondering if she said anything about finding the spiritbone.”

  Wulfe gave a nervous start and peered warily at Skylan from beneath shaggy bangs. “It was lost. It fell in the sea.”

  “I know it fell in the sea,” Skylan said impatiently. “But that doesn’t mean it’s lost. The spiritbone will come back to the person the dragon chooses to keep it safe.”

  Wulfe stared at him. “It does? It comes to the person the dragon chooses?”

  “Yes,” said Skylan. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Wulfe said. He cast a sidelong glance at the dragonhead prow.

  “I’ll think about the key,” he said, and jumped up and ran off.

  Skylan had been going to ask Wulfe to tell Aylaen about the plan, to see if she could help. Now that he thought about it, he was glad he didn’t. Aylaen would tell Treia and Treia would be certain to warn Raegar.

  Skylan looked up at the carved head of the dragon, asking for a sign, a glimmer of light in the wooden eyes that would fill him with hope. But the dragon’s eyes were blank, gave away nothing.

  He saw Wulfe leaning over the rail, waving his hand to the waves and talking again with the sea spray.

  “He won’t touch iron because it burns him. He believes his grandmother is the Queen of the Faeries, and he talks with spirits who live in the ocean.”

  Skylan sighed and muttered, “But he’s all I’ve got.”

  Wulfe sat cross-legged on the deck, watching Zahakis. Wulfe had seen the key before, but he hadn’t known what it was or what it did. He had just thought it a piece of ugly jewelry. Wulfe considered various ways of acquiring it. There were magical spells he could cast on the man that would cause Zahakis to drop the key. Wulfe could make the man’s hand wither so that the key would slide off. He could cause the key to go red-hot and burn him and he would have to take it off.

  But that wouldn’t work, Wulfe realized, because then the key would be so hot Skylan couldn’t touch it.

  The true drawback to all these ideas was that they smacked of magic. Owl Mother had warned Wulfe that if he used his magic, he should disguise it as a natural phenomenon. Otherwise he would be putting himself in danger.