Secret of the Dragon

by Margaret Weis

  Now even the players on the opposing teams were crowding around the Torgun warriors, vying with each other for a chance to shake their hands.

  “You better go rescue my slaves!” Acronis shouted, leaning over the side of the chariot to speak to Zahakis. “I fear they’re going to be killed by kindness.”

  He tossed Zahakis the winner’s purse, having been given the victory by default. “You may find this useful.”

  Zahakis summoned his men and led them onto the field. He and his soldiers went among the people, handing out the coins from the purse and suggesting that they celebrate the team’s victory in the taverns. The crowd cheerfully dispersed. Zahakis found that Skylan had managed to keep the Torgun together. The only three missing were Sigurd and Farinn and Bjorn and they were safe in the handcart, under the care of Keeper, being treated for their injuries and snake bite.

  “So what god did you piss off?” Zahakis asked Skylan as they were walking out of the arena.

  After the people had departed and the arena was empty, Raegar and the other warrior-priests were tasked with the job of cleaning up the playing field. Treia found Raegar supervising a group of slaves who were tying ropes around one of the touchstones that had been knocked over.

  “Where were you?” Raegar asked testily. “Where did you go?” He added, scowling, “You weren’t with the other priestesses. I tried to find you—”

  “I went to pray. So much is at stake for us, my love,” Treia answered. “I felt the need to take my cares to the god.”

  Raegar opened his mouth and then closed it again. He couldn’t very well chastise her for praying.

  “Tell me what happened,” Treia said. “What did I miss?”

  Raegar was glad to have a chance to talk about the episode. He explained how the fury had attacked Skylan, how the fiend could melt iron with a look from her bleeding eyes, how she possessed the strength of twenty men.

  “It was our prayers to Aelon that drove the creature away,” he said angrily. “But did the rabble notice that? No! They swarmed onto the field, lauding Skylan and the Torgun as heroes! They are now the darlings of Sinaria.”

  The slaves heaved on the ropes and the boulder started to rise. One of them slipped, however, losing his grip on the rope, and the boulder crashed to the ground. Raegar kicked the offending slave and ordered them all to start over. He walked back over to where Treia was standing, observing the proceedings.

  “Some god must love that whoreson Skylan,” Raegar continued in low and bitter tones. “He survives assassination, not once, but twice.”

  Treia wrapped her hands around his arm, snuggled up against him. “He won’t survive a third.”

  Raegar snorted. “There won’t be a third. The Priest-General is already furious with me as it is. Skylan must live! He is the only one who knows the ritual—”

  “Not the only one,” said Treia. “Not anymore.”

  Raegar looked down at her, startled. He was about to ask her what she meant, then he realized that the center of the Para Dix field was probably not the best place to be holding this conversation.

  The slaves managed to haul the boulder into position and looked to Raegar for further orders. He curtly ordered them to start picking up refuse from the field. He led Treia to a shadowy, secluded area beneath the grandstand.

  “Did Aylaen find out the secret?” he asked.

  “We no longer need Aylaen,” said Treia calmly. “We no longer need Skylan.”

  “Then who knows the ritual?” Raegar demanded.

  “I do, my love,” said Treia.

  He stared at her, amazed.

  “I can summon the Vektan dragon,” Treia continued. “I can repel the ogre invasion.”

  “But how did you find out?” Raegar asked, bewildered. “Who told you?”

  “Aelon, my love,” said Treia. “Who else?”

  “Aelon! Of course! A miracle!” Raegar cried fervently, embracing her. “Praise Aelon’s name!”

  “Praise Aelon’s name,” Treia repeated. She nestled into his arms. “You no longer need to keep Skylan alive.”

  “We’ll get rid of the whole bloody lot of them,” said Raegar. “Except Aylaen, of course.”

  Treia put her arms around her lover and pressed her head against his chest so that he could not see her smile.

  CHAPTER

  6

  * * *

  BOOK THREE

  Practice for the Para Dix was called off the next day to allow the players to recover. Skylan was up early checking on the wounded. He was particularly worried about Farinn, who had been blinded by the fury, and was relieved to find that the quiet young man was slowly recovering his eyesight.

  They shared a meal of bread and dried meat, all except Bjorn, who was still ill from the effects of the snake’s poison. Sigurd and the others discussed the fury, speculating on where she might have gone, hoping it was a far distance away. Skylan said nothing to anyone about what the druid had told him, about someone powerful wanting him dead.

  The warriors were strong in their praise of Aylaen and talked of the sword she had used to drive the fury away. A magical sword, they said, blessed by Vindrash. Too bad the priests had taken it from her, but not surprising.

  Aylaen responded to their praise with a wan smile and left the group as soon as she could, saying she was going to make Wulfe take a bath. As they watched her walk away, Grimuir voiced what they were all thinking.

  “She ate almost nothing. Something is wrong with her.”

  “The same that is wrong with all of us,” Sigurd said. “We are slaves.”

  “We may be slaves, but the people love us now,” said Erdmun. “They cheered us yesterday. A girl kissed me.”

  “His first,” said Bjorn.

  The men laughed, but the laughter was half-hearted. Sigurd did not laugh at all. His nose was swollen. His eyes were blacked, he had a lump on the side of his head. He tossed his half-eaten bread to the deck of the ship in disgust.

  “Torval wasn’t cheering. If we had come to his Hall, he would have planted his boot in our rear ends and kicked us out the door.”

  He rose to his feet and glared around at them. “It was a game! A goddam game! We are slaves playing a goddam game! Where is the honor in that?”

  “You wanted to win yesterday as much as any of us,” said Erdmun.

  “That’s how they trap us,” said Sigurd. “They treat us as if we were important.” He cast a dark glance at Skylan. “And some of us fall for it. We should have tried to escape in the melee. What has happened to Vindrasi honor?”

  “Torval does not honor those who throw away their lives foolishly.” Bjorn pointed at the tattoo. “What should we do about this? Cut our arms off?”

  “If that’s what it takes, maybe we should,” said Sigurd with a snarl. “What I said goes. You’re all a bunch of sniveling pukes. Especially you, Ivorson. You like it here, and why not? You saved the Legate’s life. You’re his pet. Four slaves escaped the night the wolves attacked. Why didn’t you try to escape? Why didn’t you make a break for it?”

  “You are saying I should have run off and left you and my friends behind?” Skylan asked. He shook his head. “We are Torgun. All escape or none.”

  “And when will that be?” Sigurd demanded.

  Skylan was tempted to tell his men about the impending invasion of Sinaria by the ogres. That was the time to escape, when the city was under assault, the people panicked, the soldiers occupied in fighting the ogres. Even Aelon might be preoccupied, might not notice a handful of slaves sneaking out of their compound, carrying their ship to the river and sailing away. That was his plan and knowledge of his plan would give his people hope.

  The words were on the tip of his tongue. In the end, he did not speak them.

  “When the time is right,” he said.

  The answer was weak. The men looked disappointed. Sigurd sneered in disgust and Skylan turned away. It was not that he didn’t trust his friends. All of them, even Sigurd, had come togeth
er to fight the fury yesterday. His men would never purposefully reveal the secret. But they would be excited when they heard the news, and their excitement would be hard for them to conceal. Cheerful slaves. Slaves in a good mood. Slaves exchanging grins and conspiratorial whispers. The guards would be sure to notice and suspect something was amiss.

  Skylan found it hard enough to keep his knowledge of the invasion to himself. He had to set a continual watch on his tongue, make certain not to blurt out what he knew.

  And then, what if the invasion did not happen? Any number of things might go wrong. A horrific storm might send the ogre fleet to the bottom of the sea. Raegar and his priests must be praying nightly for such a storm, and Aelon might be powerful enough to cause the winds and water to rise against his foes.

  Then there was the spiritbone of the Vektan dragon. How could he leave that in the hands of their foes? He was still trying to think of some way to steal it back. An enormous task, he conceded. Some would say impossible. He glanced at the dragon’s head, propped up against the rail. His men believed fixing the broken prow was impossible, but Skylan didn’t accept that either. He remembered his vision of the goddess standing on the deck of the Venjekar.

  He went in search of Aylaen. He found her by following the sounds of Wulfe shrieking. The two were in the creek; Aylaen was holding Wulfe by the arm while she scrubbed him vigorously with lye soap. Wulfe was screaming that she was trying to poison him.

  Catching sight of Skylan, Wulfe begged for help. Skylan shook his head and stood with his arms folded, watching, until Aylaen finally decreed that the boy was as clean as he was ever going to be and let him loose.

  Wulfe cast Skylan a bitter glance as he dashed past him. Skylan walked over to Aylaen, who was climbing out of the creek, as wet as the boy.

  “I need to ask you something about the spiritbone—”

  “Did you remember the secret of the Vektan dragon?” Aylaen asked eagerly.

  “No,” said Skylan, “but I have been thinking about it and I believe I do know the secret. I don’t know I know it.”

  Aylaen shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Did Treia tell you how the Southlanders managed to find this spiritbone?” Skylan asked. “This isn’t the Vektan spiritbone the ogres stole from us, is it?”

  “No, it is a different one. I was told”—Aylaen paused, seemed to be choosing her words carefully—“that the god Sund gave the spiritbone to Aelon. I didn’t believe it at first, but I’ve thought about it, and I fear it’s true.”

  Skylan was silent, waiting for her to continue.

  “You know how I have visions sometimes,” Aylaen said awkwardly. “Visions of the gods . . . Treia always scoffed at my visions. She said they were only dreams. But they’re not dreams, Skylan.”

  Aylaen glared at him defiantly, daring him to challenge her. He remained silent, and after a pause, she went on, sounding defensive.

  “Dreams are rambling. Everything is gray and black and nothing makes sense. But my visions are bright and filled with light and color. I remember them clearly. I can hear every word. I was with the gods in Torval’s Hall. The gods had returned from battle. They carried their shields and weapons. And one of them was missing. The God of Stone, Sund.”

  Skylan interrupted. “The druid told me that someone powerful sent the fury to kill me. Perhaps it was Sund.”

  Aylaen thought this over. “But that doesn’t make sense. If Sund gave Aelon the Vektan spiritbone, he must want the priests to be able to summon the dragon. Which means he would want to keep you alive because you know the secret.”

  “You’re right,” Skylan admitted, stymied.

  “Unless . . .” Aylaen paused.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless there’s something about the secret itself. Sund is the only god who can see into the future. That’s what Vindrash meant when she said the other gods were now blind. What if Sund gave our enemies the Vektan bone for a reason, but not for the reason we think. Not for the reason they think . . .”

  Aylaen grabbed hold of Skylan and gave his arm a shake. “You have to remember, Skylan! You have to! When we know the secret, we’ll have the answer to this mystery.”

  “A mystery that belongs to the gods,” said Skylan gloomily. “Perhaps there is no answer.” He sighed, then said, with a rueful smile, “At least one good thing has come out of this. You are talking to me.”

  Aylaen flushed crimson and hurriedly let go her hold of him.

  “I know you can never forgive me for Garn’s death,” he added. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I can never forgive myself. But I hope you don’t hate me—”

  “I was angry, Skylan,” said Aylaen with a bleak sigh. “I was filled with rage. I hated you. I hated the gods. I hated Garn because he died and left me. Now I hate only myself. I’ve done something terrible, Skylan. Worse than you can imagine.”

  Drowning in misery, she was reaching for help. She was on the verge of telling him. He waited, not moving, scarcely daring even to breathe lest he frighten her.

  “Skylan Ivorson!” Zahakis’s shout rang through the camp.

  “Damn!” said Skylan.

  “You better go,” said Aylaen.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said, and she nodded, but he knew she wouldn’t.

  Zahakis had brought Treia along with him. Skylan was leaving the compound when Treia entered it. She did not look at Skylan, but swept past him.

  “What is she doing here?” Skylan asked.

  “She said she wanted to speak to her stepfather and the others,” said Zahakis.

  “What about?” Skylan was suspicious, alarmed.

  Zahakis shrugged. “I neither know nor do I give a crap.”

  “I should stay, hear what she says—”

  Zahakis looked at him and then looked at the six soldiers marching behind them. Skylan heaved a sigh.

  “What does the Legate want with me?” he asked irritably.

  “Not the Legate. Chloe. She has asked for you. She’s not well, Skylan,” Zahakis added abruptly. “Too much excitement, the physicians say. They also say we should do whatever she wants. Give her anything she asks for.”

  “She’s dying?” Skylan asked, shocked.

  Zahakis shook his head.

  Skylan was filled with a sorrow that startled him. He had only known Chloe a short time, but her wyrd had wrapped closely around his in a knot that could not be broken without pain.

  Treia was no longer important. He forgot about her.

  Seeing Treia approaching their ship, the Torgun warriors rose angrily, even Farinn, who was still half-blind from the fury’s attack. Their expressions dark and grim, they stood together in a line, shoulder to shoulder. Aylaen cast the warriors a nervous glance and hurried to intercept Treia, draw her away.

  “I am glad to see you, Sister,” said Aylaen. “We should talk in my tent—”

  Treia pulled free of her grasp.

  “I came to talk to all of you,” she said loudly.

  “Next time, bring along your traitor lover,” said Sigurd. “I’d like the pleasure of ‘talking’ to him.”

  “Where is Skylan?” Treia demanded.

  “I am Chief now,” said Sigurd. “As for Skylan, he’s a slave like the rest of us. He has to obey his master.”

  “And who’s responsible for us being slaves, I wonder,” said Grimuir, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I am not, if that is what you are implying,” Treia said sharply. “As for Raegar, he did what he did for your own good.”

  “If you are here to preach at us—” Bjorn began.

  “I am here to help you escape,” said Treia.

  The Torgun regarded her in startled and distrustful silence.

  “And why would you do that?” Sigurd asked, frowning. “You have made it clear you despise us.”

  “And what about me?” Treia cried. Her face was pale, pinched with bitterness. “My mother as good as sold me into slavery when I was a chi
ld, giving me to the Kai so that Vindrash would spare her husband’s life. And then he died anyway. No, I did not weep to see the rest of you made slaves.”

  “If that’s how you feel about us, why would you want to help us?” Sigurd asked, still suspicious.

  “I know you will never believe this, but Raegar brought you to Sinaria to try to make you see reason. He believed in the old gods as you did. He was taken into slavery and he found Aelon, and since then his life has been blessed. He wanted the same for you.”

  “I’ll give him a kiss next time I see him,” Erdmun said, and the men laughed.

  Treia gave a shrug. “I told Raegar that you will never give up your barbaric ways. He sees now that I was right. But he does not want your blood on his hands and neither do I.”

  “Blood?” Sigurd asked. “Who’s going to kill us? The people love us—”

  “The Empress doesn’t,” said Treia bluntly. “She is furious. You made her look ridiculous before the people. Never mind that she broke the rules or that the fury could have easily turned on the crowd if you had not stopped her. The Empress cares nothing about that. She cares only about appearance. She was angry to see the crowd make heroes of you at the expense of her players. And so, she has arranged for you to die.”

  The Torgun stared, amazed.

  “Her soldiers can try to kill us,” said Grimuir. “They may not find it that easy. We will fight—”

  “Fight!” Treia scoffed. “Her Imperial Majesty won’t let her soldiers soil their hands by fighting slaves! She has far cheaper and easier means of destroying you. The bread you ate this morning. Did it have a strange flavor? Perhaps the ale was more bitter than usual.”

  “You mean she’d poison us?” Erdmun looked queasy.

  “Poison is one means. She has many others. Aylaen is my sister. You are my kinsmen,” said Treia. “You are Raegar’s kinsmen. Neither he nor I can stand by to see you foully murdered. We have devised a plan for you to escape.”