Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [180]
Skylan glared at her, but he realized he didn’t have much choice. He limped over to where the board rested on the stump of the tree and, grimacing, sat down on the stool. He continued to rub his leg, which burned as if he’d been stabbed with a red-hot knife.
“I have first move,” he said.
“Go ahead,” said Owl Mother. “It doesn’t matter to me. But then I’m not your dead wife.”
Skylan paled, stared at her, startled. Then he flashed an angry glance at Wulfe, who flushed red and made a dash for the woods. Skylan felt called upon to explain.
“I don’t know what lies the boy told you. The truth is I suffered from nightmares on board the ghost ship,” said Skylan.
Owl Mother was busy sorting out the bones. “Wulfe says he saw the draugr.”
“Wulfe says he talks to dryads.”
Owl Mother arranged her bones in front of her. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Skylan cast her a scathing glance. “It was a nightmare,” he muttered.
Through force of habit, he picked up five dragonbones and started to throw them.
Owl Mother’s hand clamped over his.
“Why do you do that?” she demanded.
“Do what?” Skylan felt his skin burn and grow cold all at the same time.
“Roll five bones. You’re supposed to roll only one.”
Skylan wrenched his hand out of her grip. “It’s a variant I learned somewhere.”
“From the draugr,” said Owl Mother. Her eyes pierced him.
Skylan held the bones tightly in his hand, feeling the sharp corners prick his skin. He stared down at the board and did not answer.
“Five bones,” Owl Mother said softly. “She always starts the game by rolling five bones?”
Skylan did not answer.
Owl Mother regarded him speculatively. “The dead walk this world for a reason. The draugr came to you, not seeking revenge for her death. She came to play a game of dragonbones. Didn’t you ever think to wonder why?”
“It’s a dream!” Skylan said. “I didn’t wonder anything.”
“You should. The draugr is trying to tell you something.”
“Then why doesn’t she just come out and say it?” Skylan cried angrily.
He flung the bones onto the ground and stood up, irresolute, thinking he would leave, only to sit back down. He ran his hand through his hair, wiped the sweat from his face, and spoke feverishly.
“She walks the earth and picks up dragonbones and sets swords aflame and slams shut trapdoors. She plays the game well enough to beat me every night. Why does she keep tormenting me? Why doesn’t she tell me what she wants of me?”
He pounded the question into the log with his clenched fist, emphasizing every word with a blow, striking the log so hard, he bloodied the heel of his hand.
“Perhaps she cannot tell you. . . .”
Owl Mother paused, then said thoughtfully, “Or perhaps she is forbidden to tell you.”
Skylan dug a splinter out of his hand. He was sucking on it when a thought came to him. He looked sharply at Owl Mother. “If I figure out what Draya wants with me, will she leave me in peace?”
Owl Mother shrugged. “Do I look like a draugr?” She added quickly, with a laugh, “Don’t answer that!”
“But you know about draugrs,” said Skylan. He leaned close to her, his voice soft and persuasive. “You are old and you are wise, Owl Mother. What do you think she means?”
“Save your honey words for young and pretty girls, Skylan Ivorson,” Owl Mother told him, grinning. “They won’t sweeten my vinegar.”
She rose to her feet and shook down her skirts. “Now go away and leave me to my work. I’ve better things to do this afternoon than play games with you. Haul my chair back inside before you go, and now that I think of it, there is a leak in my roof that needs mending. . . .”
By the time Skylan finished Owl Mother’s chores (she kept coming up with more), the sun was setting. The trees cast long shadows over the path that led back to the village. He walked with his head down, not paying attention to where he was going, his thoughts running on the draugr and the nightly games of dragonbones.
“Skylan,” said Garn, coming to join him. “I want to apologize—”
“I’ve come from Owl Mother’s,” said Skylan.
“I know.” Garn