Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [141]
Draya managed a smile. “I do not want to offend them. I will go with them. The Chief . . .” She hesitated, then, giving a little sigh, she said, “He will understand.”
The warriors did as she commanded and lowered the gangplank. Draya descended. The druids received her with every mark of honor and respect. One gave her his hand. She clasped it and, with firm step, walked alongside him through the water and onto the beach.
The warriors watched Draya and her gray-robed escort vanish among the trees. The two conferred quickly.
“The Chief of Chiefs must know about this,” said one, and the other agreed.
They leaped over the side and went running across the beach toward the footbridge. They never reached Skylan. The forest dealt with them as it had dealt with the others.
Draya paid no heed to her surroundings. Her vision had turned inward; she did not see the physical path she walked, did not feel it beneath her feet. Several times her escorts were forced to steady her stumbling steps or guide her around a fallen branch or prevent her from wandering into a bog.
Her body weakened by sickness, she left it behind. Her restless, fomenting mind was calm, quiet, becoming like a pool of still, clear water in which she could see her own reflection. What she saw horrified her. She made herself confront the wretched, tortured being she had become. She looked steadfastly into the dark and sorrow-filled eyes. She listened to the silent, desperate wail of despair.
She stopped walking only when the druid told her she had arrived.
“Your journey has been a long and unhappy one,” the druid said in soft compassion. “We hope you find rest.”
The druids departed, leaving her alone.
For long moments she remained standing where they’d left her, coming to herself only when prodded by her body. She had to either sit down or fall down. She looked about and saw where she was. She gazed in wonder and awe.
Loving care had transformed a small forest glade into a living shrine. Bay laurel trees, each standing taller than a man, filled the air with fragrance. The smooth ground was covered with green moss soft to the touch as the finest lamb’s-wool blanket. A fallen log covered with the same moss lay at the foot of an ancient oak tree and appeared to be a kind of throne. Violets bloomed amid the moss. White lilies and purple irises flanked the throne; red poppies flamed. The Sun Goddess filled the glade with light.
The holiness, the sanctity of this blessed place soothed Draya’s spirit. She sank to her knees in the soft moss before the throne and closed her eyes and whispered brokenly, “Vindrash, forgive your wretched servant.”
“My daughter,” said a voice, “I have waited long to hear those words.”
Draya lifted her head. The Dragon Goddess shimmered into being before her. Clawed feet dug into the moss. Translucent wings were folded against her body. The long graceful tail trailed sinuously among the irises and the lilies. The gilded mane quivered and stirred. Scales the colors of ruby and sapphire, emerald and diamond sparkled in the sunshine, half-blinding in their radiance. The dragon’s head, balanced gracefully upon the long curving neck, was massive yet delicately formed. The eyes were large, and though they could flare fiery red orange with righteous anger, they were now soft pale yellow, incandescent with understanding and compassion.
Draya had served the goddess all her life, and she had never seen her in her awful majesty and splendor. She realized that few mortals saw Vindrash like this. Draya was being honored, and that made her feel even worse.
“I lost my faith in you, Vindrash,” said Draya. Her confession poured forth in a cleansing wave. “I did not trust you to know what was good for our people. I did not trust Torval to judge Horg in the Vutmana. I poisoned Horg and then hid my crime by making it appear as if Skylan had slain him.”
Draya clenched her fists in her lap. “And I fear, Vindrash, that I did not kill Horg out of care