Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [27]
As the years passed and times grew hard for the Vindrasi, the goddess did not come so often. Draya blamed herself. She had been too importunate, constantly badgering the goddess to intervene with the other gods, imploring Svanses to ease the harsh winters or persuading Akaria to bring rain to end summer droughts. Draya had at last sensed Vindrash’s sorrow and her helplessness, and the priestess quit making such demands. When the goddess came to her, neither of them spoke. They comforted each other.
But now a fortnight had passed, and in that time Vindrash had not appeared to Draya at all. The priestess was spending almost all her days and most of her nights in the Hall, neglecting her many duties, forbidding anyone to disturb her, even forbidding the other Bone Priestesses and acolytes from entering the Hall.
Draya had told no one about the goddess’s refusal to speak to her, keeping the goddess’s secrets as Draya kept her own. Draya was Kai Priestess, a position of honor many women coveted. If they had known the truth of her life, they would have pitied her deeply—and that was the very reason none knew the truth. Draya was too proud to let anyone see her suffering.
Thirteen years ago, the Kai Priestess had died, and Draya, at the age of seventeen, had been chosen by the Kai Moot to be their leader. Their choice had been presented to the gods for approval, and Draya received a clear sign of Vindrash’s favor—on that night, a star fell from the sky. (One Bone Priestess had argued that a falling star was a sign of doom, not a mark of approval, but all knew she wanted the position for herself, and no one paid heed to her.)
Draya had been elated, and her joy was complete on the day she was married to Horg Thekkson, Chief of Chiefs. Draya had no say in her marriage; the Kai Priestess was always the consort of the Chief of Chiefs. She had not minded. She fancied herself in love with the bold and handsome Chief.
Horg Thekkson had been thirty years old then, and despite his age, he had been strong and brave and smart—or so he had seemed to the seventeen-year-old girl who knew little of life, having spent her years since the age of five in service to the gods. Sadly Draya soon came to learn that Horg was a sham—more cunning than smart, more brash than bold, more bully than brave.
Horg made it clear from the night of the wedding that he did not love her, nor was he even attracted to her. Horg liked plump, big-breasted women, and Draya was too thin and bony for his tastes. But Horg was thirty years old, and he still had no sons. So though he didn’t like her, he used Draya like a breeding mare, coupling with her night after night, and then leaving her to spend the time more pleasantly with his latest concubine. Draya longed for a child herself, and she endured his brutish treatment without complaint.
Months passed, and Draya did not conceive. Horg blamed her. Draya blamed herself, until, shamed by his accusations, she began to make discreet inquiries. She discovered that Horg had never fathered a child by any woman, not even his numerous concubines. Life was difficult for Draya, but she took comfort in her duties as Kai Priestess. Then, about a year into their marriage, Horg was wounded in battle.
The wound—a spear thrust in his side—had not been bad. If he’d come to Draya and asked her to pray to Desiria to heal him, he would likely have recovered in a day or two. Instead, Horg had publicly spurned her. He had gone about telling everyone he did not trust the gods, who had given him a barren woman for his wife. He had sought treatment from one of his concubines, who claimed to have magical powers of healing. If she did, her magic had failed her. The wound