Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [197]
She hastily wrapped the boy’s injured hands in the oiled cloth she had been using. Skylan glanced at them and frowned. Aylaen motioned with her head, and Skylan came over.
Shielding Wulfe with her body, keeping his hands hidden from the men, Aylaen removed the cloth.
Skylan stared at the boy in astonishment. The boy’s fingers were burned, yet there was no fire on board ship, for fire was the most feared enemy of a dragon-ship. A blaze could consume the wooden planking in a matter of moments, and not even the Dragon Kahg would be able to save it or those on board.
“How did you burn yourself?” Skylan demanded.
Wulfe blubbered and refused to answer.
“It was the sword,” said Aylaen, awed. “I . . . I saw it, Skylan. When he touched the metal, his fingers stuck to it and I could smell his flesh burning! Treia should treat him—”
“No!” said Skylan and Wulfe together.
“It was the iron!” The boy looked accusingly at Skylan. “I told you!”
“Give him to me,” said Skylan. “I’ll deal with him. Where is Treia?”
He looked around and saw Treia standing near the dragon’s head, talking to Raegar. “Good. I’ll take the boy below and bandage his hands. You keep your sister busy. Don’t let her come down.”
“Treia’s far more happily occupied by Raegar than she would be with me,” Aylaen said. “The wounds will putrefy if you don’t put something on them. At least you could use some of the unguent Treia made up for burns. I know where it is. I helped her pack it.”
They hustled Wulfe down the ladder into the cool darkness of the hold. The cabin looked much different from when Skylan had occupied it on the nightmarish journey back from the ill-fated trip to Apensia. Sea chests were neatly stacked. The bedding was folded, smoothed. All was orderly and smelled of dried lavender.
“Shut the hatch,” said Skylan.
Seeing Aylaen hesitate, he added, “We don’t want Treia to come upon us without warning.”
She didn’t like the way Skylan was looking at her, but Aylaen did as he ordered. She pulled the trapdoor closed, leaving them in semidarkness as the faded light filtered in from between the chinks in the planking. He kept trying to catch her eye, but Aylaen avoided looking at him. She smeared the unguent gently on Wulfe’s fingers. The boy flinched when she touched him, but he did not cry out. The unguent appeared to soothe him and he relaxed, watching in silence as she wound the bandages around his hands.
“If anyone asks, you cut yourself,” Skylan admonished.
“It was the iron. It burned me,” Wulfe insisted, staring perplexedly at the thick cloth lumps that were now his hands.
“No one believes iron could burn you. You cut yourself,” said Skylan.
“Do you believe?” Wulfe asked, looking at him and Aylaen.
“I believe you,” said Aylaen quietly. She glanced at Skylan. “I have to. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“I believe you, too,” said Skylan, sighing. “Satisfied?”
“I cut myself,” Wulfe said.
“Now run along back up on deck.”
“I’ll go with him,” said Aylaen, rising.
“Wulfe, go on,” said Skylan. He escorted the boy to the ladder, helped him climb it, and opened the trapdoor.
“I cut my fingers,” Wulfe announced loudly, climbing on deck.
Skylan shut the trapdoor and locked it. He hurried back down the ladder.
“I should go.” Aylaen tried to sidle past him.
Skylan grabbed her around the waist and drew her close. “I thought I would hate the way you looked without your beautiful hair. At first I did hate it.” He kissed her neck, not seeming to notice that she was pushing against him. “But now I find you are more desirable than ever.”
He ran his hand over her shorn head and gazed at her tenderly. “No more teasing, Aylaen. I want you, and I know you feel the same. I like you in man’s clothing. It is so much easier to manage than dresses and brooches and smocks. . . .”
One hand reached inside her shirt, fondling her breasts. He slid his other hand down her trousers.
“You did this for love of me,” he murmured.
Aylaen struggled in Skylan’s grip, but he would not let her go. She was exhausted; she had not been able to sleep for