Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [21]
“Sit down on the ground. Let me see.”
Skylan eased himself down. Aylaen gently tried to peel away the blood-gummed bandages that had stuck to the wound. He flinched and gasped with the pain.
“It looks bad,” said Aylaen. “It’s all inflamed.”
“I have to fight tomorrow,” said Skylan. “I need your sister to intercede with the Goddess Desiria for me.”
Aylaen glanced doubtfully at the closed door. “Treia said she was not to be disturbed.”
Aylaen’s well-meaning ministrations had opened the wound again. Blood flowed freely. Skylan, now that he was sitting, was not sure he could get back up again.
“She must,” he said. “I am the War Chief.”
Aylaen nodded and went to knock gently on the door.
“Sister, I am sorry to disturb your prayers, but Skylan Ivorson is here. He is wounded, and he needs the healing blessings of the Goddess Desiria.”
Skylan heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened a tiny crack. Treia peered out.
“I can do nothing for him,” she said coldly, and started to shut the door.
“Sister, look at him!” Aylaen cried, seizing hold of the door and holding it ajar. She gestured to Skylan. “See how ill he is—”
Treia’s nearsighted glance flicked over him.
“I can do nothing,” she repeated, and she slammed the door shut.
“Your sister has never liked me,” Skylan said. “I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to her.”
Aylaen stood staring at the closed door, a dreamy haze clouding her eyes.
“It has nothing to do with you,” she said. “The gods weep. Aylis hides her face in grief. Akaria screams and tears her hair. . . .”
“Aylaen,” said Skylan sharply.
Aylaen looked at him and blinked. “What?”
“You are not a bard, and this is no time for storytelling,” he said impatiently. “We have outgrown make-believe. Besides,” he added, frowning, “the gods will take offense. Making up such stories about them is disrespectful.”
“I don’t mean to be. I like to think of them as a family.” Aylaen’s smile dimmed; her expression darkened. “Not as my family. A family that loves and cares for each other.”
Skylan struggled to his feet, his hand pressed over his thigh.
“I will talk to your sister,” he said, and he started for the door.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Aylaen hurriedly. “I have an idea. Owl Mother lives close by—”
“That old crone! Never mind. I am feeling much better. I must return to the village. Garn will need my help—”
Skylan took a step, swayed dizzily, and sagged to his knees. Aylaen knelt down beside him and slipped her arm around his midriff.
“Put your arm across my shoulder,” she ordered.
Skylan was too weak to argue. He did as she told him.
Aylaen’s body pressed against his, and with her help, he was able to stand. Skylan could feel the softness of her breast beneath the wool of her gown, the firmness of her thigh, the play of her muscles, and desire outdid his pain.
Aylaen was tall for a woman, above average height, and she was strong, for she had done hard physical labor on the family farm from childhood onward. She had no trouble supporting Skylan’s weight. Her red mass of curls—so different from the silky blond hair of the rest of her family—brushed against his cheek.
No one else in the Torgun had red hair. There were whispers that the man who had been married to her mother was not her real father. Perhaps that was one reason Sigurd seemed to have so little fondness for his brother’s wife.
“Owl Woman won’t be in her dwelling,” said Skylan huskily. The ache of desire warred with his pain. “She would have gone into the hills with the other women.”
He’d never been this close to Aylaen, not since they were children and had played their rough-and-tumble games. He’d wanted to hold her, the gods knew! But he could never bring himself to touch her, which was odd, because he’d had no such inhibitions regarding other women.
He could still have his pick of those women, but he wanted only one, and that was Aylaen. He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her at night to wake with a groan of longing. He spent hours imagining what he would say to her