Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [186]
Skylan saw a flash of steel out of the corner of his eye and saw the faceless foe aiming a spear at Garn’s back. Skylan shouted a warning, but Garn was battling two of the enemy in front of him and he did not hear. Skylan ran toward the spear thrower, his sword raised, when he heard a cry, and glancing back, he saw Aylaen slip in a pool of blood and fall to the ground. The enemy was on her. She struggled to regain her feet. Skylan would never reach her in time. The axe fell. . . .
Skylan woke, sweating and panting and shaking. His terror was real, and it took him long moments to realize he’d been dreaming. Flinging on his clothes, he grabbed a lighted torch and went to talk with Aylaen.
He came to Treia’s dwelling. Sigurd had been furious when he heard that Aylaen was going to undergo the ritual of the man-woman. He had made life so unbearable for her that she had left, moved in with Treia. Skylan found the house dark. It was the dead of night. They would have been asleep for a long time.
Skylan banged on the door with his fist and shouted for Aylaen.
The door opened a crack.
“Who is that?” Treia asked, shielding her eyes against the flaring light.
“You know who it is!” Skylan said. “I want to talk to Aylaen.”
“You cannot,” said Treia. “She is in purification for her ritual. She cannot see or speak to anyone.”
“She’ll speak to me!” Skylan said, and he lunged at the door, prepared to shoulder his way inside.
Treia blocked the entrance with her body. “The gods forbid it.”
“Get out of my way,” said Skylan angrily, “or by Torval I will knock you down!”
Treia’s lips twisted in a mocking smile. “You are too late,” she said. “See for yourself.”
She pointed at his feet.
Skylan kept his gaze fixed on her. “I don’t believe you. Let me inside.”
Treia shrugged, not caring whether he believed her or not. “You are too late,” she repeated.
Skylan slowly and reluctantly looked to where she pointed. At first he couldn’t see anything, and then he stared, sick with dismay at the sight of masses of beautiful, luxuriant, flame-red curls lying in a shining heap on the ground.
“We will join you on the ship at dawn,” said Treia.
She shut the door in his face.
Skylan was tempted to batter the door down, but what would he do then? He picked up one of the shining curls and smoothed it between his fingers.
He let it fall to the ground and walked slowly home.
Skylan wasn’t the only person roaming the woods that night. Wulfe had been visiting Owl Mother, telling her everything that had happened during the Kai Moot and after. The two worked as they talked. Wulfe ground leaves in a stone bowl. He tied bunches of lavender and hung them from the ceiling to dry, pausing often to sniff hungrily at the stewpot.
Owl Mother had little to say, but Wulfe knew she was listening to him, because every so often she would chuckle and talk about people sticking their heads into hornets’ nests or wading hip-deep in bogs of their own making.
Wulfe talked until he didn’t have any more to say. He teased the wyvern to make it snap its beak at him, for which he was scolded by Owl Mother, who fed him a bowl of stew and told him he was welcome to spend the night, if he didn’t mind sleeping on the floor.
Wulfe thanked Owl Mother, but said he had to leave. The Torgun were sailing to war tomorrow, and Wulfe planned to go with them.
Owl Mother eyed him. “I’m surprised Skylan agreed to take you.”
“He didn’t,” Wulfe said calmly. “He thinks I’m staying with you while he’s gone. He won’t know I’m on board until it’s too late to send me back.”
“The warriors will be armed with axes and swords and spears,” said Owl Mother. “The ship will stink of iron.”