Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [29]
Seeing Draya’s face, the little girl faltered. “Did I do wrong, Priestess?”
“No, you did quite right, child,” said Draya, curving her lips into the false smile that came so easily to her these days.
She took the torch from the girl and used it to light a torch of her own. She was leaving the Hall, just about to shut the door, when she heard a voice speak her name.
“Yes, child, what is it?” Draya asked.
“I didn’t say anything, Priestess,” said the girl.
Red light illuminated the Great Hall. The goddess’s ruby eyes burned. Draya fancied she heard a breath whispering, “Make haste, Draya! Make haste!”
Draya did as the goddess commanded, walking as fast as she dared with only the torch to provide light. Draya would have been elated at once more hearing the goddess’s beloved voice—if she had not heard that voice tremble with fear.
Vindraholm, the lord city of the Vindrasi nation, was many times larger than the Torgun village of Luda, for the Heudjun Clan, who had the honor of being the guardians of the lord city, was larger and wealthier than the Torgun. But even the Heudjun were feeling the effects of a bad winter and the spring drought.
As Draya hastened through the streets, she saw a young woman seated near a longhouse door. The woman’s eyes were sunken, her face pale and drawn. Draya knew her. The woman had recently lost her firstborn child. She stared at Draya as she hurried by. Draya had tried to save the child, but there had been nothing she could do except pray to Desiria, who had not responded. The tiny babe did not live to see the sunrise. Draya had tried to pray to the goddess to comfort the family, but her words rang hollow. After that, she had taken to sequestering herself in the Great Hall.
Torval’s Rock was ablaze in torchlight. A large crowd had gathered to stare across the fjord at the beacon fire, speculating excitedly on what dire occurrence had befallen the Torgun Clan.
Horg was present, surrounded by his cronies. They stood clustered together in a small group, aloof from the rest. As Draya approached, she could hear Horg saying something in a loud voice. She couldn’t understand him from this distance, but his remark was greeted with shouts of laughter from his cronies. The rest of the crowd, Draya noted, did not seem to think his remark funny. No one else laughed.
The people of the Heudjun Clan were unhappy and discontent. They had lost respect for Horg. They considered his judgments arbitrary, favoring those who could give him something in return. Many seasons had passed since he’d led the warriors in a raid. When the winter was over and the ships could take to the seas again, the warriors had waited in eager anticipation for this season’s expeditions. Horg had refused to go, claiming that he’d received unfavorable signs from the gods.
Someone sighted her, and word went about that the Kai Priestess had arrived. The crowd parted for Draya. Everyone had words of greeting and respect for her. They might dislike her husband, but they honored her.
Horg turned to face her. His bloodshot eyes narrowed, warning, threatening. He wanted to strike fear into her, and she wondered uneasily why. What is going on? What is he doing? What has he done?
As she drew nearer to Horg, she could smell the sour stench of cider. The fury-filled eyes were bleary and having trouble focusing; he swayed slightly where he stood. Draya understood now why Fria had sent for her.
Draya found her friend waiting anxiously for her on the outskirts of the crowd. Fria gripped Draya’s arm and hissed in her ear, “Horg is drunk!”
“I can see that for myself,” Draya returned, deeply troubled.
The Vindrasi people worshipped Joabis, God of the Revel, and enjoyed the ale and cider that were his gifts to mankind. But they had small tolerance for drunkenness. Horg had been known to imbibe more than was good for him on occasion, but she had never seen him this drunk before.
Fria gripped her harder.