Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [153]
The woman was gone. The rudder had been lashed in place, keeping the ship on a steady course. Wulfe searched the deck as best he could from his vantage point and did not see her. He was about to climb onto the deck, when he caught sight of the dragon’s angry eye swiveling in his direction. Wulfe hurriedly ducked back down into the hold. He did not go up on deck again.
He found food and water, and he ate and drank and tended to the Ugly One as best he could, bathing his hot flesh and forcing water down his throat and spreading a potion he found on the wounds.
None of that helped. The Ugly One grew steadily worse. He no longer sat up or cried out. His breathing was labored; his heartbeat was weak. Wulfe could barely feel a pulse. The young man’s soul was far from his body and roving farther still.
The only way to save him was for Wulfe to use his magic. The cure might kill him, but the young man was dying anyway. Wulfe was more afraid of the druids finding out that he’d broken their rules.
Wulfe decided to risk it. Hoping he didn’t do anything terrible, such as turn the young man inside out (Wulfe had mistakenly done this to a girl’s pet cat once—a horrible experience for all concerned), Wulfe put his hand over the young man’s heart and began to sing to him.
The song Wulfe sang in a thin and wavering voice was a song his mother had sung to him.
He had only vague memories of his mother. A woman lovelier than the dawn, she had smelled of laurel and rosemary and violet. She was clothed in gossamer and moonlight. Her long golden hair, which went to her feet, was spangled with dewdrops. He had never seen her by day, only by night, when she came to dance with him and laugh with him, hold him and weep over him. At such times, the wolves who were his guardians would throw back their heads and wail in sorrow.
His mother sang songs to him, over and over until the songs became a part of him, like his blood and his bones and his skin.
“The Ugly Ones will seek to harm you, because you are not one of them,” his mother had whispered to him again and again. “I cannot be there to protect you, but so long as you remember the songs of your people, the Ugly Ones cannot hurt you.”
Wulfe had told the elder what his mother had said. The elder had looked very sad and said that, although his mother meant well, she should not have given him such a dangerous gift. At that time, Wulfe didn’t understand what the druid meant by the songs being dangerous. He had come to understand a little when he’d sung his songs to the poor sick cat.
Wulfe sang one of his mother’s songs to the dying young man. His mother would not have approved, for the young man was one of those very Ugly Ones who would try to harm him. The druid would not approve, for such magic was dangerous, and Wulfe couldn’t control it.
It seemed Wulfe could never make anyone happy.
The song dated back to the time when his mother’s people dwelt happily in a darkness lit only by the light of distant stars. A time before the first gods came to banish the starlight with bright, fierce fire and give the rulership of nature to fleshy, hairy creatures who had crawled out of the swamps and now walked upright on two legs. These creatures termed themselves “men,” and they were big and gross and ugly, and they used fire to make iron and used iron to kill.
Wulfe knew the meaning of the words in his heart, though not his head. Sometimes the words were joyous and sometimes cruel. They were funny and hideous and beautiful and shining. They were not afraid, for when the songs were first sung, there had been nothing to fear. The fear had come later.
Wulfe sang and pressed his hand over the Ugly One’s heart and hoped fervently that he would not turn the young man inside out. He breathed a sigh of relief to see the flesh remaining on the outside of the bones, where it belonged. The song seemed to work. The Ugly One drew a deep and easeful breath. His life