Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [187]
“I know,” Wulfe said, shuddering, “I don’t want to go. But I have to. I’ve been thinking about it, you see, and I realized that Skylan is my geas.”
Owl Mother grinned. “Your geas? What evil daemon laid such a thankless charge upon you as that young man?”
“No daemon laid it on me!” Wulfe protested indignantly. “I saved Skylan’s life. His wyrd is in my care.”
“You just take care of yourself,” Owl Mother told him. She paused in her work and fixed him with her shrewd gaze. “And remember our lessons.”
Wulfe nodded gravely. “I’ll bring you back a present, Owl Mother. What would you like? A sack of rubies?”
“Bring yourself back,” Owl Mother stated grumpily. “And that fool Skylan. He might end up being worth something someday.” She snorted. “Geas indeed!”
Owl Mother walked with Wulfe to the door. She kissed him on his forehead, reminding him of his mother. Putting both hands on his shoulders, she looked him in the eyes.
“The druids meant well, Wulfe, but they were wrong. Your gift is just that—a gift, not a curse. Use it. Use it well. Use it sparingly. But use it. Don’t be afraid. Do you understand?”
Wulfe gazed at her, wide-eyed. He wasn’t sure he did understand, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and so he gave an abrupt nod and then hurried into the night.
Wulfe liked being out alone in the darkness. He had never been afraid of the dark, perhaps because night wasn’t all that dark to him. The lambent gleam of moon and stars, mingled with the soft radiance of life that shone from trees and grass and flowers and animals, lit Wulfe’s way. It had been nighttime when his father and his father’s family had changed from their wolf forms into humans. And it had been night when his faery mother, in all her shimmering splendor, had come dancing through the darkness to sing lullabies to her child.
Walking through the forest, Wulfe saw the dryads slumbering in the boughs of their trees, and he bade them a silent farewell. He said good-bye to the naiad, who lay in her stream, her head pillowed on a smooth stone, the water running sensually over her naked body. She murmured in her sleep, and stretched out in languishing slumber. He encountered a pack of wolves, and he spoke to them politely, but they were hungry and searching for food and they had no time for him.
He took the path that led past Treia’s dwelling. He always kept an eye on her, though at this time of night she would be asleep. He padded softly up to the door, put his ear to it, and listened. Not hearing anything, he started to continue on. Something jumped out at him, a hand grabbed hold of his arm, and another clapped over his mouth and dragged him into the underbrush.
“Wulfe! Ouch, damn it, don’t bite me! It’s Garn. Be quiet. I’m not going to hurt you. I thought I might find you sneaking about here tonight. I’ve seen you watching Treia’s house before. What are you doing here?”
Wulfe stared at him in quivering silence and did not answer. He tensed, poised for flight the moment Garn let him loose.
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” said Garn, sighing. “The truth is, I’ve been waiting for you. I need you to do something for me.”
Wulfe waited, not about to commit himself.
“I need to see Aylaen, and Treia won’t let anyone inside,” Garn continued. “She just sent Skylan away. I was thinking you might be able to sneak in without waking Treia, tell Aylaen I have to talk to her.”
“I can do that,” Wulfe said cautiously.
“Will you do it?” Garn asked, and he sounded wistful.
Wulfe thought it over and nodded. He waited with Garn, both of them silent, until Garn deemed that Treia must have gone back to bed. Wulfe sneaked across the clearing in front of the longhouse. He paused a moment to stare curiously at the tangle of red curls on the ground and then, shrugging to himself, continued on.
He pushed gently on the door, and it yielded to his touch. He slipped inside. The fire had been doused, the stewpot cleaned out and put away, for both women would be leaving tomorrow. Wulfe paused, trying to find his way around, when he saw Aylaen’s head, pale and shimmering, floating