Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [28]
He took to drinking hard cider, claiming that he did so to ease his pain. At least, he ceased his efforts to father a child with Draya. He no longer forced her to have sex with him. He beat her instead.
Horg blamed Draya and the gods for his problems and those of the Vindrasi people. He claimed he had lost faith in them. Draya suspected that this was just an excuse for him to take out his wrath on her. Horg hadn’t lost his faith—a man couldn’t lose something he’d never had. Draya hadn’t lost faith, even though her prayers often went unanswered. Like a sailor washed overboard, she clung to her faith as to a piece of driftwood to keep herself from drowning.
Draya sighed deeply and sat back on her heels to gaze sadly at the statue. She felt closer to the gods than to people, and if she lost the goddess’s trust and love, she did not think she could bear to go on living.
Draya heard raised voices and men shouting outside the Great Hall. Absorbed in her cares and her sorrows, she’d paid little heed. Only when one of her acolytes called for her by name did she rouse herself.
“Draya! Priestess, are you there?”
Draya wondered irritably why the girl didn’t just enter; then she remembered that she’d forbidden anyone to come inside. The girl hovered in the doorway. She held a blazing torch in her hand, and Draya realized she had been sitting alone in the darkness all this time.
“Priestess?” the girl called again.
“I am here,” Draya answered. “Wait a moment while I light the candles.”
She had not known it was so late. The altar candles should have been lighted with the setting of the sun. The flame gleamed in the ruby eyes of the statue of Vindrash. Draya glanced at the statue and stood with her hand in midair, arrested by the statue’s gleaming eyes. The ruby eyes stared at her, flickering as though alive. Their gaze was not warm and inviting. The eyes were cold and sharp, like the prickly light of a red star.
Draya stared so long, she forgot the lighted brand in her hand. The fire consumed the stick of wood, burning her fingers. She muttered in pain and dropped the brand and turned her attention to the acolyte. Draya could feel the statue’s eyes still watching her.
“Yes, child, what is it?” Draya asked.
The girl was one of the young acolytes, about ten years old, and she was breathless from running and excitement.
“Trouble, Priestess!” the girl gasped. “The Torgun have lit the beacon fire!”
That was alarming news. The lighting of a beacon fire happened in only the most dire emergency, anything from plague to flood to an enemy invasion.
“Has Horg been told?” Draya asked immediately. “Has the Chief returned? Does he know?”
Horg had left a few days ago, telling her he was going to visit a neighboring clan. As Chief of Chiefs, he was required to travel among the clans, settling arguments before they turned into blood feuds, hearing grievances, handing down judgments. Disputes were constantly arising among the clans—fights over the shifting of a boundary stone, cattle stealing, a marriage arrangement gone bad.
Horg was supposed to keep disputes from devolving into war. Draya heard complaints by her Bone Priestesses that Horg was worse than useless. These trips for him were nothing more than an excuse for drunken revelry and a chance to sleep with any wretched female foolish enough to think she might gain something out of bedding the Chief of Chiefs.
Horg’s failings meant that the Vindrasi nation was fractured, divided. Most of the clan chiefs had long ago lost respect for him, though they were careful not to show it. Horg might be too weak to do much good, but he was strong enough to do a great deal of harm.
“The Chief of Chiefs has returned,” the girl reported. “He has gone to Torval’s Rock to see for himself.”
“Did Horg send you to fetch me?” Draya asked.
“No, Priestess,” replied the acolyte innocently. “Some of the people wanted to know if you were coming.