Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [34]
Norgaard gave a wan smile, something he did rarely, for there was not much in his life to smile about. He rested his hand on Skylan’s shoulder.
“You mean, I will have another fine son,” he said quietly. “Come with me a moment. I would speak with you in confidence.”
Norgaard motioned for Skylan to join him, and the two left the hall.
“Where is Treia? She should be here. You spoke with the Bone Priestess this afternoon. Do you know why she hasn’t come?”
Skylan remembered Treia’s cold face peering at him from behind the closed door and the flat tone of her voice refusing to help him.
“Who knows why Treia does anything? She’s a strange woman, Father. Perhaps it has something to do with me. She doesn’t like me. I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to her.”
Norgaard gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean Treia doesn’t like you? Why would that matter?”
“She refused to heal me,” said Skylan. “I had to go to that horrible old woman, Owl Mother—”
“The Goddess Desiria refused to heal you?” Norgaard interrupted, aghast.
“The goddess didn’t refuse. Treia refused. She never even spoke to the goddess. I told you, Father. Treia doesn’t like me—”
“That can’t be the reason,” Norgaard muttered. “A Bone Priestess is required to heal her worst enemy if the gods command it. This bodes ill for us.”
“Do not speak words of evil omen, Father,” Skylan urged him. “The beacon fire burns. The call has gone out. Tomorrow morning, Heudjun warriors will be here to help us teach the ogres that the Gods of the Vindrasi are very much alive!”
“And yet, it was Owl Mother and her fae magic who healed you,” said Norgaard grimly, and he limped inside the Chief’s Hall to take his place at the head of the table.
Skylan accompanied him into the hall.
“What did Norgaard have to say?” Garn asked.
The warriors were handing around the drinking horns and pouring the ale. The noise in the hall increased, and though the two young men sat at the front of the table, not far from the ogres, they were able to talk without worrying that their words might be overheard.
“Nothing of importance,” said Skylan, filling his own drinking horn from a pitcher. “My father is being an old granny.”
He related his conversation, adding, “The gods have their reasons for not revealing their power yet.”
Garn shook his head somberly.
“Not you, too!” Skylan exclaimed, exasperated. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about the gods, as well.”
“Not the gods so much as the ogres,” Garn said quietly. He glanced back at them. “They’re too smug, too pleased with themselves. And where is their commander? Why didn’t he come with the others?”
Skylan shrugged. “Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he has the trots and they don’t want to admit it.”
One of the godlords raised his voice. “Where is your shaman? Ours is here. Where is yours? She was supposed to bring us an answer from your gods.”
“Perhaps she is having trouble finding them,” suggested the other god-lord, and the two ogres laughed.
Norgaard said something evasive. Catching sight of Skylan and Garn, he motioned to them.
“You heard them? I need Treia here. Now,” Norgaard said.
“I will go fetch her,” said Skylan.
“No, your absence would be noted,” said Norgaard. “I must commence the feast. The ogres tell me we should not wait for their commander. I do not like this, any of it. Garn, summon Treia and then see if you can find out what the ogres are up to. Skylan, come sit in front with me.”
Garn gave a nod and departed on his errands.
Skylan took his place at his father’s right hand. The two ogre godlords and their shaman sat on the bench at the head of the table along with Norgaard. Ogre bodyguards stood behind their commanders.
At a signal from Norgaard, men entered the hall bearing large wood platters filled with roasted meat. Others brought in stew in wooden bowls and the round, flat loaves of bread.
The ogres did not appear concerned over the absence of their commander, nor did they wait for him to