Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [215]
The Hall appeared, at first glance, to be empty. The dragons were not around, apparently. Treia was uneasy. Due to her poor eyesight and the play of light and shadow, she could not see much, but she had the sense that all was not right.
“Hello?” Treia called out sternly. “Is anyone here?”
To her amazement, she heard someone groan.
The sound came from the direction of the statue of Vindrash. Treia advanced slowly and cautiously, following the path of the slanting sunlight. Then she saw why Aylis, the Sun Goddess, had been loath to advance. The ancient statue of Vindrash, said to have been been made of wood taken from the World Tree, lay on the floor. This statue of the Dragon Goddess was unique, in that it did not portray Vindrash in her warlike attitude, as did all other statues, with spread wings and striking claws. This statue showed Vindrash in repose, lying prone, with one eye closed and one eye open, to show that even in sleep, Vindrash kept watch over her people.
Except that her watch had failed. The head of the statue had been struck from the body. The statue’s trunk had been hacked to pieces.
The groan sounded again, louder. She squinted her eyes and saw a huddled form lying beside what was left of the statue of Vindrash. Treia was no coward. The blood of generations of Vindrasi warriors ran in her veins. Spotting a jewel-encrusted urn lying on the floor, Treia picked it up and, holding it in her hands like a club, she drew nearer. A man lay on his side on the floor, his back to her.
“Don’t move!” Treia warned. “I would just as soon bash in your skull as not.”
The groaning stopped. The man raised his head, turned to stare at her in astonishment. “Treia?”
Treia dropped the urn. Clapping her hands over her mouth, she sank to her knees.
The man sat up and held out his hands. “Treia, it’s me! Raegar.”
She flung herself into his arms, kissing him and crying and babbling incoherently. He held her and soothed her, stroking her hair, kissing her gently, then more passionately.
“Treia!” Raegar groaned again, this time with the pain of desire. “You are mine. You are meant to be mine. The gods saved me from death to bring us together!”
Treia asked no questions. She didn’t care how he came to be in the Hall of Vektia or why.
Overwhelmed with joy at the miracle of his return, Treia clung to him, kissed him fiercely, clasped him, held him. His hands hiked up her skirts. He lowered himself on top of her, fumbling at the fastening of his trousers. She opened herself to him. He was gentle, at first, mindful of her virginity. She urged him with broken words to take her and he did so, thrusting hard, almost savagely. She reveled in the pain and only a small moan escaped her when he withdrew and lay limply on top of her.
She smiled at him tremulously. Raegar seemed to become suddenly aware of what he had done. He sat up, hastily lacing his pants.
“Treia, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I was so happy to see you. I never thought . . .”
Raegar covered his face with his hands, hiding his tears. Treia gathered him close. The two clung to each other.
“I feared you had drowned,” she whispered.
Raegar wiped his tears with his hand, drew his sleeve across his nose. His eyes, red with weeping, were wide with awe and wonder.
“I did drown, Treia,” he said, and he shuddered at the memory. “I could not hold my breath. I opened my mouth and water flowed in and . . . and the next thing I knew I was here in this great Hall.”
He looked around, bewildered, then focused on her. “And you are with me, my love, my own. It is a miracle!”
“Vindrash brought you here,” said Treia. “She brought you back to me.”
Raegar looked at her strangely. “No, my dear. I do not think it was Vindrash.”
Treia gave a little laugh. “Well, of course it was Vindrash. Who else could it have been who brought you to