Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [163]
Among those caught by the fog were Garn and Aylaen. They, alone, did not mind it. The two had been working in the fields, but when the fog brought their work to an enforced halt, they slipped away to meet in a secluded grove.
Skylan’s marriage had removed the last impediment to their happiness, or so Aylaen had finally managed to convince Garn. He knew Skylan did not love Draya, knew that his friend loved Aylaen. Even though Skylan’s love was now hopeless, Garn could not quiet the feeling that he was betraying his friend by loving the woman he loved.
Aylaen had only laughed at his qualms and led him to what was known as Lovers’ Grove. That day had been hot and cloudless. When they reached the grove, Aylaen unpinned the brooches on her dress and drew it off. She took off her smock, shook down her long hair, and stood naked before him.
“I love you,” she said simply, and held out her hands to him.
Garn’s passion overcame him. The two were now lovers, and not a day had passed since but that they managed to find time to slip away, take pleasure in each other’s arms.
Aylaen had a secret motive for giving herself to Garn, one she didn’t tell him. Since the man to whom she had once been all but betrothed was now married, Aylaen was again on the marriage market. Her stepfather, Sigurd, was shopping around for a husband for her. He would not even consider Garn, who was an orphan with no property or wealth. But if Aylaen were to become pregnant with Garn’s child, Sigurd would have no choice except to allow them to marry. He would be furious, but Aylaen didn’t care. Let him rage. Let him beat her, even. She would have her reward. She would have Garn, and she would have his child. She was bitterly disappointed, after they’d been lovers for a fortnight, to feel the cramps that presaged her monthly bleeding.
She reflected that she had time. Even if Sigurd found a prospect, negotiations for a marriage sometimes dragged on for months.
The day the thick fog settled on the land, she and Garn smiled at each other and drew the mists over them like a woolly blanket. They lay twined together, keeping each other warm. Only when they heard the ringing of the bells—a clanging, tinny, desperate sound—did Garn realize that they would be missed, people would be worried about them. Norgaard might even send out search parties.
Aylaen tried to pull him down on top of her again.
“We don’t have to go. Not yet,” she pleaded.
“People are lost,” Garn said. “What a strange sound the bells make in the fog,” he added with a shiver, pulling on his trousers. “Not like bells at all. More like daemons clamoring.”
“They sound like bells to me,” muttered Aylaen angrily.
Garn helped her to her feet. She shook free of his grip and smoothed down her skirts over her bare legs. Then, seeing him smile, she relented and threw her arms around him and gave him one more passionate kiss. Holding fast to each other, the two followed the narrow path that led out of the grove. The fog was thick around them, and they were forced to grope their way through the woods.
“Our lives are like this,” said Garn. “Shrouded in time, we exist only in the moment. Nothing lies ahead of us and nothing behind. If I turned around, I would lose my way. If I let go your hand, I would lose you. I could take a misstep and tumble off a precipice—”
“We’re nowhere near a precipice,” said Aylaen practically. “And we’re not lost. This path leads straight to the road and once we hit the road, we turn right and take it back to the village. Dratted brambles!” She sucked the blood from a long jagged scratch on the back of her hand. “Stop talking nonsense and watch where you’re going, Garn. You dragged me into a bush!”
They finally struck the road and turned right, but in this cloud-bound world, nothing looked familiar, and though Aylaen was confident they were headed for the village, she took comfort in the clanging of the bells and the calls and shouts of their clansmen.
The bonfires came in sight, orange smudges in a gray landscape, and Garn and Aylaen